Classic Poem

Each in his turn once owned that little chair,
Now strangely dear;
Just for a while I dream my happy care
Again is here.

Before that baby thing was well outgrown
I knew each day,
For not one hour should I be left alone —
Four weeks away!

Come have a secret with me, tiny chair!
In this dull mood,
Before I hide in many a silken square
The well-worn wood,

I mean to write a letter to my sons,
For you to keep;
And do not yield it to the precious ones
Until I sleep.

Now let me fill Love's words with golden thought,
And hide them here;
When from the dark the treasure shall be brought
Some far-off year,

My boys will need, perhaps, grown hoary men,
What now were lost
Did I not save, to make them richer then,
What absence cost!