And stepped from out of the blue;
And each laid a little child softly
Upon its bosom of dew.

And they carried them higher and higher,
And they nothing knew any more,
Until they were standing waiting,
In front of the round gold door.

And they knocked, and called, and entreated
Whoever should be within;
But all to no purpose, for no one
Would hearken to let them in.

"_La rime n'est pas riche_" nor is the technique thoroughly assured; but
the thought is poetical. Here is another, "In an Apple-Tree," which
reads like a child variation of that haunting "Mimnermus in Church" of
the author of Ionica:--

In September, when the apples are red,
To Belinda I said,
"Would you like to go away
To Heaven, or stay
Here in this orchard full of trees
All your life? "And she said," If you please
I'll stay here--where I know,
And the flowers grow."

In another vein is the bright little "Child's Song":--