A DARK MONTH.
353
XXIX.
I send you my love in a song:
Ah child, your gift is the better,
Mine does you but wrong.
No fame, were the best less brittle,
No praise, were it wide as earth,
Is worth so much as a little
Child's love may be worth.
We see the children above us
As they might angels above:
Come back to us, child, if you love us,
And bring us your love.
