Their softness is as fleeting as a flower,
The cheeks like petals such a little hour,
The deepest dimple, theirs so transiently.
Even tomorrow softness may be hard;
The little cotton cushions on the knees,
Turned into bony knobs for climbing trees,
The fists, so like a rose, grow lean and scarred.
His full moon cheeks will narrow to a line,
The silken hair becomes the brush of bristle,
As mother's little flower turns to thistle,
And there will linger not one little sign
To prove the cuddly cupid that was he;
Look tenderly on little boys of three!
~AUTHOR: Isabelle Bryans Longfellow