When she was but a tot,
A chubby little bundle of dread and joy,
I’d asked God to watch over her,
and her angel came and sat down with mine;
I knew he was there,
I could feel him.

Now with pomposity and flaunting,
her angel is vanished,
and mine seems to leave at thirteen.
She’s here but my baby is gone,
and I asked heaven to bring her back.
I’d do anything to be with my angel again.

Flesh is for the worms,
but a cultured mind creates delightful recollections, perpetual.
Today, the whole world nurtures my child,
and the house has more volume; it echoes our voices.
If she doesn’t listen to God’s voice through mine
She’ll be a feast for all of society.