 | At Sunset |  |
136
TO AN INFANT OF DAYS
No foot hast thou for frolic or for speed,No brain to plan for conquest or for need;
No hand to work Man's miracles of skill,
Nor wise discernment, parting good from ill.
Yet none can say how high thy strength shall lift,
How wondrous and beneficent thy gift.
O grant, mysterious Powers, that this may prove
A riddle of fair omen, writ in love!
| At Sunset | |