The round little flower of a face that exults
        in the sunshine of shadowless days
Defies the delight it enkindles to sing of it
        aught not unfit for the praise
Of the sweetest of all things that eyes may rejoice in
        and tremble with love as they gaze.

Such tricks and such meanings abound on the lips
        and the brows that are brighter than light,
The demure little chin, the sedate little nose,
        and the forehead of sun-stained white,
That love overflows into laughter and laughter
        subsides into love at the sight.

Each limb and each feature has action in tune
        with the meaning that smiles as it speaks
From the fervour of eyes and the fluttering of hands
        in a foretaste of fancies and freaks,
When the thought of them deepens the dimples that laugh
        in the corners and curves of his cheeks.

As a bird when the music within her is yet
        too intense to be spoken in song,
That pauses a little for pleasure to feel
        how the notes from withinwards throng,
So pauses the laugh at his lips for a little,
        and waxes within more strong.

As the music elate and triumphal that bids
        all things of the dawn bear part
With the tune that prevails when her passion has risen
        into rapture of passionate art,
So lightens the laughter made perfect that leaps
        from its nest in the heaven of his heart.

Deep, grave and sedate is the gaze of expectant
        intensity bent for awhile
And absorbed on its aim as the tale that enthralls him
        uncovers the weft of its wile,
Till the goal of attention is touched, and expectancy
        kisses delight in a smile.

And it seems to us here that in Paradise hardly
        the spirit of Lamb or of Blake
May hear or behold aught sweeter than lightens
        and rings when his bright thoughts break
In laughter that well might lure them to look,
        and to smile as of old for his sake.

O singers that best loved children, and best
        for their sakes are beloved of us here,
In the world of your life everlasting, where love
        has no thorn and desire has no fear,
All else may be sweeter than aught is on earth,
        nought dearer than these are dear.

MAYTIME IN MIDWINTER.

A new year gleams on us, tearful
  And troubled and smiling dim
As the smile on a lip still fearful,
  As glances of eyes that swim: 
But the bird of my heart makes cheerful
  The days that are bright for him.

Child, how may a man’s love merit
  The grace you shed as you stand,
The gift that is yours to inherit? 
  Through you are the bleak days bland;
Your voice is a light to my spirit;
  You bring the sun in your hand.

The year’s wing shows not a feather
  As yet of the plumes to be;
Yet here in the shrill grey weather
  The spring’s self stands at my knee,
And laughs as we commune together,
  And lightens the world we see.