 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
73
THE BENT OF THE TWIG.
The moon is out in beauty, silveringHill, field and forest with her icy light,
And as I gaze, a tiny, toddling thing,
With pattering feet, and face upraised and bright,
Comes to my side;—I raise her in my arms
Placing her feet upon the window-sill,
And long she gazes on the landscape's charms,
Laughing as all delighted babies will:
Grasps at the stars, which far in dizzy space,
Lie thick as blossoms in the lap of June,—
Then with lips parted, and uplifted face,
Raises her arms and tries to kiss the moon.
“How soon,” says one whose face I just discover,
“That child, like all her sex, aspires to things above her!”
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |