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The Baby

by Hugh Miller

No shoes to hide her tiny toes,
No stockings on her feet;
Her little ankles white as snow,
Or early blossoms sweet.

Her simple dress of sprinkled pink;
Her tiny, dimpled chin;
Her rosebud lips and bonny mouth
With not one tooth between.

Her eyes so like her mother's own,
Two gentle, liquid things;
Her face is like an angel's face—
We're glad she has no wings.

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