“NEIGHBOR EDITH.”
Alas! I cannot see what hue her eyes are,
Nor yet the color of her silken hair;
Tho’—thought consoling!—if I could, I fear me
She’d be less lavish with her kisses rare.
I know her lips are dewy as the rose-bud
When first it wakes, the flush of dawn to greet;
Her breath it fans my face like early zephyr
Up from the Southland roving, warm and sweet.
Her bird-like voice in simple, childish chatter,
No better music need you care to hear—
Unless it be the music of her laughter,
Like rillet, gurgling now, now tinkling clear.
And when, in short-lived moods of thoughtful silence,
You feel her tiny form against you lean,
Or when anon her dainty, dimpled fingers
Come creeping trustfully your own between,
Somehow there’s soothing in the touch, you fancy,
A secret charm for sending grief astray:
I half believe she is a born magician—
This wee, wee elf the wind could blow away.
And that is Edith, that is neighbor Edith,
Our winsome friend the other side the stile.
When we’re sad-hearted and the days are dreary,
We go and borrow her a little while.