Your toys, my child, hold them dear,
your toys smaller even than you.
And at night, when the fire drifts off to sleep, —
wrap them up in the stars from atop a tree.
Let the golden pony graze
the foggy sweetness of the grass.
And dress your little boy in his galoshes
when the eagle of the sea hurls a gust.
And put a Panama hat on your doll,
and give her a little bell to hold.
For not one of them has a mother,
and they cry out to God by the wall.
Love them, your little princesses,
I remember such a day– woe is me and alack–:
Seven streets and all filled with dolls
and the city had not one child.