Fanny
By Clara Doty Bates
WHAT do the wistful eyes discover,
Full of their baby dignity?
Lips, I know, are as red as clover,
Cheeks like the bloom that flushes over
Peaches, sun-ripe on the tree.
Let but a merry play-thought brighten
Over the little pensive face,
Then how the sober shades will lighten,
Then how the dimples deep will frighten
Every grave line from its place.
Well, I know there is mischief sleeping,
Plenty of it, behind this guise;
Little brain has a way of keeping
Back the smiles; but still they are peeping
Out from the brow, the mouth, and eyes.