80-year-old poem

In an attic dark and musty
Lay a trunk old and dusty
Locked inside are relics fair
A shiny lock of golden hair
A baby pictured, faded and torn
A tiny shoe, scuffed and worn
Some letters written in childish hand
And pictures saved of a fairyland
The only memories left of a little girl
No more the bounce of golden curls
No more the sunny impish smile
For she was made to say goodbye
To join God's playground in the sky.