_Through the tender twilights to the gay,_
_Glad truant making holiday_
_Too long before the evenfall._

The garden odors drifted through,
The scent of earth and box and rose,
And then, as silently as those,
A little wistful child I knew.

So small, so frightened and so cold,
Ah, close, so close I gathered her
Within my arms, she might not stir,
And crooned and kissed her in their hold.

_As might a happy mother, when,_
_Aghast for some quaint, trifling thing,_
_One runs to her for comforting,_
_And smiles within her arms again._

All night upon my heart she lay,
All night I held her warm and close,
Until the morning wind arose
And called across the world for day.

The garden odors drifted through
The open door; as still as they
She passed into the awful day,
A little, wistful child I knew.

Think you for this God's smile may dim