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elsie in illinois.
As if Night had spilt her stars,
Shone beneath the meadow-bars.
Shone beneath the meadow-bars.
Could she hold her babe, to look
In that merry, babbling brook,—
See it picturing his eye
As the violet's blue and shy,—
See his dimpled fingers creep
Where the sweet-breathed May-flowers peep
With pale pink anemones,
Out among the budding trees!—
On his soft cheek falls a tear
For the hillside home so dear.
In that merry, babbling brook,—
See it picturing his eye
As the violet's blue and shy,—
See his dimpled fingers creep
Where the sweet-breathed May-flowers peep
With pale pink anemones,
Out among the budding trees!—
On his soft cheek falls a tear
For the hillside home so dear.
At her household work she dreams;
And the endless prairie seems
Like a broad, unmeaning face
Read through in a moment's space,
Where the smile so fixed is grown,
Better you would like a frown.
And the endless prairie seems
Like a broad, unmeaning face
Read through in a moment's space,
Where the smile so fixed is grown,
Better you would like a frown.
Elsie sighs, "We learn too late,
Little things are more than great.
Little things are more than great.
