The Empty Crib
The attic in the dust of time
The little cradle keeps,
Where silent in it’s tiny bed,
The past forever sleeps.
And as I look upon it there
So quiet and alone,
I see once more, within my heart,
The babe that, now, is grown.
I see the precious curly head
That there in slumber lay,
Oh, what I wouldn’t give to kiss
My sleeping child today.
But time, oh, time, the cradle touched
As only time can do,
And left the ache of memory,
Where once he hurried through.
And where my baby’s tender hand
Reached out to take my own,
Time has left this empty crib
In the attic dust — alone !
Kate Watkins Furman