Menella Bute Smedley (Менелла Бьют Смедли)
A Child’s Fancy
O little flowers, you love me so, You could not do without me; O little birds that come and go, You sing sweet songs about me; O little moss, observed by few, That round the tree is creeping, You like my head to rest on you, When I am idly sleeping. O rushes by the river side, You bow when I come near you; O fish, you leap about with pride, Because you think I hear you; O river, you shine clear and bright, To tempt me to look in you; O water-lilies, pure and white, You hope that I shall win you. O pretty things, you love me so, I see I must not leave you; You'd find it very dull, I know,— I should not like to grieve you. Don't wrinkle up, you silly moss; My flowers, you need not shiver; My little buds, don't look so cross; Don't talk so loud, my river. I'm telling you I will not go, It's foolish to feel slighted; It's rude to interrupt me so, You ought to be delighted. Ah! now you're growing good, I see, Though anger is beguiling: The pretty blossoms nod at me, I see a robin smiling. And I will make a promise, dears, That will content you, maybe: I'll love you through the happy years, Till I'm a nice old lady! True love (like yours and mine) they say Can never think of ceasing, But year by year, and day by day, Keeps steadily increasing.
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