A Child
The little maid next door is fair
As the white, wild-plum in May,
She runs with a leap and flying hair,
But tears are in her play.
She holds my hand when we go to walk,
Or ride in the crowded car,
Yet her round eyes shine through her baby-talk,
As sad as the fairest star.
I tell her tales of elf and fern,
Wee, happy folk that fly;
She hears but, oh, where did she learn
To smile, and then, to sigh?
As the white, wild-plum in May,
She runs with a leap and flying hair,
But tears are in her play.
She holds my hand when we go to walk,
Or ride in the crowded car,
Yet her round eyes shine through her baby-talk,
As sad as the fairest star.
I tell her tales of elf and fern,
Wee, happy folk that fly;
She hears but, oh, where did she learn
To smile, and then, to sigh?
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