It doesn't matter much, I know,
In all this world of grief and woe,
That one small girl of half-past four
Is never watching any more,
Or runs with happy, eager feet
To meet me coming down the street.

It doesn't matter much at all
That I shall never hear her call,
Or wave a bunch of wilted flowers
She picked to deck this room of ours,
Or hear her tell with sobbing breath
About a tiny robin's death.

I've gathered all her playthings up,
Her favorite porridge-bowl and cup,
Her scarlet beads and old cracked doll,
Her roller-skates and water ball,
Wond'ring just why such things must be-
For, oh, it matters so to me!