Epigraph
I cannot tell how much I love
To look on thee, my child;
Nor how that looking rocks my soul
As on a tempest wild;
For I have borne thee to the world,
And bid thee breathe its air,
But soon to see around thee drawn
The curtains of despair.
Now thou art happy, child, I know,
As little babe can be;
Thou dost not fancy in thy dreams
But thou art all as free
As birds upon the mountain winds,
(If thou hast thought of bird,)
Or anything thou thinkest of,
Or thy young ear has heard.
What are thy little thoughts about?
I cannot certain know,
Only there’s not a wing of them
Upon a breath of woe,
For not a shadow’s on thy face,
Nor billow heaves thy breast,—
All clear as any summer’s lake
With not a zephyr press’d.