O little face, little, loved tender face,
Set, like a saint's, in curls for aureole —
Little, loved face, in which the clear child-soul
Is mirror'd with a changeful perfect grace;
Where sudden ripples of light laughter chase
The dimples round the dainty mouth; where roll
Cloud-shadows of great questionings, and dole
For human ills half realized; where race,
In restless sequence, gloom, gleam, shade, and shine —
A thousand feelings, sorrow, love, and joy
A thousand thoughts, of folly half divine,
And bold imaginings, and fancies coy.
And reasonings dream-like! — O my boy, my boy.
How I do love that little face of thine!