DEAR child of mine, the wealth of whose warm hair Hangs like ripe clusters of the apricot, Thy blue eyes, gazing, comprehend me not, But love me, and for love alone I care; Thou listenest with a shy and serious air, Like some Sabrina from her weedy grot Outpeeping coyly when the noon is hot To watch some shepherd piping unaware. 'Twas not for thee I sang, dear child; -- and yet Would that my song could reach such ears as thine, Pierce to young hearts unsullied by the fret Of years in their white innocence divine; Crowned with a wreath of buds still dewy-wet, O what a fragrant coronal were mine! |