Last night I held my arms to you
And you held yours to mine
And started out to march to me
As any soldier fine.
You lifted up our little feet
And laughingly advanced;
And I stood there and gazed upon
Your first wee steps, entranced.
You gooed and gurgled as you came
Without a sign of fear;
As though you knew, your journey o'er,
I'd greet you with a cheer.
And, what is more, you seemed to know,
Although you are so small,
That I was there, with eager arms,
To save you from a fall.
Three tiny steps you took, and then,
Disaster and dismay!
Your over-confidence had led
Your little feet astray.
You did not see what we could see
Nor fear what us alarms;
You stumbled, but ere you could fall
I caught you in my arms.
You little tyke, in days to come
You'll bravely walk alone,
And you may have to wander paths
Where dangers lurk unknown.
And, oh, I pray that then, as now,
When accidents befall
You'll still remember that I'm near
To save you from a fall.
Oh, just a step upon the way
Which leads to Grown-up Land,
And soon our Baby will not need
The help of human hand!
Where'er are left within the path
The prints of dainty feet.
There seeds are sown to blossom forth
As Memory-flowers sweet!
The Finest Age Poet: Edgar A. Guest
When he was only nine months old,
And plump and round and pink of cheek,
A joy to tickle and to hold,
Before he'd even learned to speak,
His gentle mother used to say:
"It is too bad that he must grow.
If I could only have my way
His baby ways we'd always know"
And then the year was turned, and he
Began to toddle round the floor
And name the things that he could see
And soil the dresses that lie wore.
Then many a night she whispered low:
"Our baby now is such a joy
I hate to think that he must grow
To be a wild and heedless boy."
But on he went and sweeter grew,
And then his mother, I recall.
Wished she could keep him always two.
For that's the finest age of all.
She thought the selfsame thing at three,
And now that he is four, she sighs
To think he cannot always be
The youngster with the laughing eyes.
Oh, little boy, my wish is not
Always to keep you four years old.
Each night I stand beside your cot
And think of what the years may hold;
And looking down on you I pray
That when we've lost our baby small,
The mother of our man will say
"This is the finest age of all."
Hopefully, these poems are ones that you will share to encourage
and inspire others, especially those with children! The first of everything a child does is an exciting time, the first smile, the first laugh, the first tooth, the first word, and of course, the first steps!