BYRON, AGED SEVEN.
When the shadowy curtains of eve, Are drawn, and the lamps are lit,And the evening hearth-fires are bright, Through the opening door there flits,A shadow that's fair and bright, And two little arms entwine,My neck, and the rosy mouth, Is held up to kiss, and the lips,Are warm with the glory of youth.
And the great gray eyes are ashine, And they beam with a far-off look,Little cares Byron for kite or ball, For toy or picture book.He asks of the sky, and the stars, And if the Father dwells,In the heaven always, or comes, To stay in our homes as well.
He chases the birds and the bees, And the bright winged butterfly too,And the humming-bird he snares in the cup, Of the lily freighted with dew.
