by Paul C. Binotto
Little man, what keeps you there?
The bed-rail set so low, that you can clear,
But, love of me, and perhaps, a little fear,
Of what you'll find, or how to steer?
Little boy, loved so dear.
All quiet; only sleep's soft breath, I hear.
If low set rails could keep you near,
Forever in my heart, I'd erect them there.