To a Child

Little Hugh, 
Another year's grass grows on you, 
Another year has trodden down 
The thyme, and left the bracken brown,
There is less grass for men to see, 
And fewer nests in any tree. 

The towns stretch wider arms afield, 
And to their march the meadows yield:
But you are safe, you cannot change, 
Whatever hearts the years estrange 
Slowly or swiftly. You're secure, 
You shall be always sweet and pure 
As water from a mountain spring. 

Not ripening or withering 
Shall strike the seed of change in you. 
For me you never frowned or smiled,
And solemnly your memory dwells 
In me, as sea-waves live in shells. 
No day shall make this thought untrue, 
Little child!