7 September 2007 | pvzante
I suspect this is based on the Poem "Papa's Letter",
I was sitting in my study, Writing letters when I heard "Please dear mama, Mary told me Mama mustn't be disturbed.
"But I'm tired of the kitty; I want some other thing to do. Writing letters, is you mama? Can't I write a letter too?"
"Not now, darling, mama's busy; Run and play with kitty, now." "No, no mama, I write a letter; I can, if you will show me how."
I would paint my darling's portrait As his sweet eyes searched my face. Hair of gold, eyes of azure, Form of childish, witching grace.
But the eager face was clouded, As I slowly shook my head, Till I said: "I'll make a letter Of you, darling boy, instead."
So I parted back the tresses From his forehead high and white, And a stamp in sport I pasted 'Mid its waves of golden light.
Then I said, "Now, little letter, Go away and bear good news." And I smiled as down the staircase Clattered loud the little shoes.
Down the street the baby hastened Til he reached the office door. "I'm a letter, Mr. Postman; Is there room for any more?
'Cause this letter's doing to papa, Papa lives with God, you know, Mama sent me for a letter, Do you think that I can go?"
But the clerk in wonder answered, "Not today, my little man." "Then I'll find another office, 'Cause I must go if I can."
Suddenly the crowd was parted, People fled to left, to right, As a pair of maddened horses At the moment dashed in sight.
No one saw the baby figure- No one saw the golden hair, Till a voice of frightened sweetness Rang out on the autumn air.
'Twas too late-a moment only Stood the beauteous vision there, Then the little face lay lifeless Covered o'er with golden hair.
Rev'rently they raised my darling, Brushed away the curls of gold, Saw the stamp upon his forehead Growing now so icy cold.
Not a mark the face disfigured, Showing where the hoof had trod; But the little life had ended- Papa's letter was with God.
Anonymous, Nineteenth Century