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THE POET TO HIS CHILDHOOD.
But how dared you use me so? For you bring my ripe years low
To your child's whim and a destiny your child-soul could not know.
And that small voice legislating I revolt against, with tears.
But you mark not, through the years.
"To the mountain leads my way. If the plains are green to-day,
These my barren hills are flushing faintly, strangely in the May,
With the presence of the Spring amongst the smallest flowers that grow."
But the summer in the snow?
Do you know, who are so bold, how in sooth the rule will hold,
Settled by a wayward child's ideal at some ten years old?
—How the human arms you slip from, thoughts and love you stay not for,
Will not open to you more?
