Poetry Archives

I bought my little grandchild Ann
          A bright balloon,
And I was such a happy man
          To hear her croon.
She laughed and babbled with delight,
          So gold its glow,
As by a thread she held it tight,
          Then—let it go.

As if it gloried to be free
          It climbed the sky;
But oh how sorrowful was she,
          And sad was I!
And when at eve with sobbing cry
          She saw the moon,
She pleaded to the pensive sky
          For her balloon.

O Little One, I pray that you
          In years to be,
Will hold a tiny baby too,
          And know its glee;
That yours will always be the thrill
          And joy of June,
And that you never, never will
          Cry for the moon.