The world is but a broken reed,
And life grows early dim-
Who shall be near thee in thy need,

To lead thee up to Him?

He who himself was "undefiled?"

With Him we trust thee, beautiful child! Nathaniel Parker Willis (1806-1867]

TO ROSE

ROSE, when I remember you,

Little lady, scarcely two,

I am suddenly aware

Of the angels in the air.
All your softly gracious ways
Make an island in my days

Where my thoughts fly back to be
Sheltered from too strong a sea.
All your luminous delight
Shines before me in the night
When I grope for sleep and find
Only shadows in my mind.

Rose, when I remember you,
White and glowing, pink and new,
With so swift a sense of fun
Although life has just begun;
With so sure a pride of place
In your very infant face,

I should like to make a prayer
To the angels in the air:

"If an angel ever brings

Me a baby in her wings,

Please be certain that it grows

Very, very much like Rose."

Sara Teasdale [1884

The Picture of Little T. C.

TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY

TIMELY blossom, Infant fair,
Fondling of a happy pair,
Every morn and every night
Their solicitous delight,

Sleeping, waking, still at ease,
Pleasing, without skill to please;
Little gossip, blithe and hale,
Tattling many a broken tale,
Singing many a tuneless song,
Lavish of a heedless tongue;
Simple maiden, void of art,
Babbling out the very heart,
Yet abandoned to thy will,
Yet imagining no ill,

Yet too innocent to blush;
Like the linnet in the bush
To the mother-linnet's note
Moduling her slender throat;
Chirping forth thy pretty joys,
Wanton in the change of toys,
Like the linnet green, in May
Flitting to each bloomy spray;
Wearied then and glad of rest,
Like the linnet in the nest:-
This thy present happy lot,
This, in time will be forgot:
Other pleasures, other cares,
Ever-busy Time prepares;

And thou shalt in thy daughter see,

This picture, once, resembled thee.

273

Ambrose Philips [1675?-1749]

THE PICTURE OF LITTLE T. C. IN A
PROSPECT OF FLOWERS

SEE with what simplicity.

This nymph begins her golden days! ·

In the green grass she loves to lie,

And there with her fair aspect tames

The wilder flowers, and gives them names;

But only with the roses plays,

And them does tell

What color best becomes them, and what smell.

Who can foretell for what high cause
This darling of the gods was born?
Yet this is she whose chaster laws
The wanton Love shall one day fear,
And, under her command severe,
See his bow broke, and ensigns torn.
Happy who can

Appease this virtuous enemy of man!

O then let me in time compound
And parley with those conquering eyes,
Ere they have tried their force to wound,
Ere with their glancing wheels they drive
In triumph over hearts that strive,
And them that yield but more despise:
Let me be laid

Where I may see the glories from some shade.

Meantime, whilst every verdant thing
Itself does at thy beauty charm,

Reform the errors of the Spring;

Make that the tulips may have share
Of sweetness, seeing they are fair,
And roses of their thorns disarm;
But most procure

That violets may a longer age endure.

But O young beauty of the woods,

Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers,
Gather the flowers, but spare the buds;

Lest Flora, angry at thy crime

To kill her infants in their prime,

Do quickly make the example yours;

And, ere we see,

Nip, in the blossom, all our hopes and thee.

Andrew Marvell [1621–1678]

To Hartley Coleridge

275

TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE

SIX YEARS OLD

O THOU! whose fancies from afar are brought:
Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel,
And fittest to unutterable thought

The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol;
Thou fairy voyager! that dost float

In such clear water, that thy boat

May rather seem

To brood on air than on an earthly stream;

Suspended in a stream as clear as sky,

Where earth and heaven do make one imagery:

O blessed vision! happy child!
Thou art so exquisitely wild,

I think of thee with many fears

For what may be thy lot in future years.

I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest,
Lord of thy house and hospitality;

And Grief, uneasy lover! never rest

But when she sate within the touch of thee.

O too industrious folly!

O vain and causeless melancholy!

Nature will either end thee quite;

Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,

Preserve for thee, by individual right,

A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks.

What hast thou to do with sorrow,

Or the injuries of to-morrow?

Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth,

Ill-fitted to sustain unkindly shocks,

Or to be trailed along the soiling.earth;
A gem that glitters while it lives,

And no forewarning gives;

But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife,

Slips in a moment out of life.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

TO A CHILD OF QUALITY

FIVE YEARS OLD, 1704, THE AUTHOR THEN FORTY

LORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous band
That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,
Were summoned by her high command
To show their passions by their letters.

My pen amongst the rest I took,

Lest those bright eyes, that cannot read, Should dart their kindling fires, and look The power they have to be obeyed.

Nor quality, nor reputation,

Forbids me yet my flame to tell;
Dear Five-years-old befriends my passion,
And I may write till she can spell.

For, while she makes her silkworms' beds
With all the tender things I swear;
Whilst all the house my passion reads,
In papers round her baby's hair;

She may receive and own my flame;

For, though the strictest prudes should know it,
She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,
And I for an unhappy poet.

Then too, alas! when she shall tear

The rhymes some younger rival sends,

She'll give me leave to write, I fear,

And we shall still continue friends.

For, as our different ages move,

"Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it!),

That I shall be past making love

When she begins to comprehend it.

Matthew Prior [1664-1721]