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 I bought my little grandchild Ann
 A bright balloon,
And I was such a happy man
 To hear her croon.
She laughed and babbled with delight, So gold its glow, As by a thread she held it tight, Then--let it go.
As if it gloried to be free It climbed the sky; But oh how sorrowful was she, And sad was I! And when at eve with sobbing cry She saw the moon, She pleaded to the pensive sky For her balloon.
O Little One, I pray that you In years to be, Will hold a tiny baby too, And know its glee; That yours will always be the thrill And joy of June, And that you never, never will Cry for the moon.

Poem by Robert William Service
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