[W.W.]
A little maid, of summers four--
Did you compute her years,--
And yet how infinitely more
To me her age appears:
I mark the sweet child's serious air,
At her unplayful play,--
The tiny doll she mothers there
And lulls to sleep away,
Grows--'neath the grave similitude--
An infant real, to me,
And _she_ a saint of motherhood
In hale maturity.
[Illustration]
So, pausing in my lonely round,
And all unseen of her,
I stand uncovered--her profound
And abject worshipper.
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[Illustration: "LEND ME THE BREATH OF A FRESHENING GALE."]
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