We'll betake us home-along
Hand in hand at evensong.

[Illustration]

* * * * *




III

THE DOLLY'S MOTHER

[W.W.]


A little maid, of summers four--
Did you compute her years,--
And yet how infinitely more
To me her age appears:

I mark the sweet child's serious air,
At her unplayful play,--
The tiny doll she mothers there
And lulls to sleep away,

Grows--'neath the grave similitude--
An infant real, to me,