But who are dearer now than we,
And better known by fate and name:
And do they smile and say, "How tall
The child becomes, how radiant, she
Who was so little when she came!"

Darling, we count your eighteen years,--
Fifteen in Heaven, on earth but three,--
And try to frame you grown and wise:
But all in vain; there still appears
Only the child you used to be,
Our baby with the violet eyes.




OUTWARD BOUND,

A grievous day of wrathful winds,
Of low-hung clouds, which scud and fly,
And drop cold rains, then lift and show
A sullen realm of upper sky.

The sea is black as night; it roars
From lips afoam with cruel spray,
Like some fierce, many-throated pack
Of wolves, which scents and chases prey.

Crouched in my little wind-swept nook,
I hear the menacing voices call,