To a Child
Whose imp art thou, with dimpled cheek,
And curly pate and merry eye,
And arm and shoulders round and sleek,
And soft and fair? thou urchin sly!
What boots it who, with sweet caresses,
First called thee his, or squire or hind? —
For thou in every wight that passes,
Dost now a friendly playmate find.
Thy downcast glances, grave but cunning,
As fringed eyelids rise and fall,
Thy shyness, swiftly from me running —
'Tis infantine coquetry all!
But far afield thou hast not flown,
With mocks and threats half-lisped half-spoken,
I feel thee pulling at my gown,
Of right goodwill thy simple token.
And thou must laugh and wrestle too,
A mimic warfare with me waging,
To make, as wily lovers do,
Thy after-kindness more engaging.
The wilding rose, sweet as thyself,
And new-cropped daisies are thy treasure,
I'd gladly part with worldly pelf,
To taste again thy youthful pleasure.
But yet for all thy merry look,
Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming,
When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook,
The weary spell or hornbook thumbing.
Well; let it be! thro' weal and woe,
Thou knowest not now thy future range;
Life is a motley shifting show,
And thou a thing of hope and change.