To Anna, three years old

My Anna, summer laughs in mirth,

  And we will of the party be,

And leave the crickets in the hearth

  For green fields' merry minstrelsy.

I see thee now with little hand

  Catch at each object passing bye,

The happiest thing in all the land

  Except the bee and butterfly.

       *       *       *       *       *

And limpid brook that leaps along,

  Gilt with the summer's burnished gleam,

Will stop thy little tale or song

  To gaze upon its crimping stream.

Thou'lt leave my hand with eager speed

  The new discovered things to see--

The old pond with its water weed

  And danger-daring willow tree,

Who leans an ancient invalid

  Oer spots where deepest waters be.

In sudden shout and wild surprise

  I hear thy simple wonderment,

As new things meet thy childish eyes

  And wake some innocent intent;

As bird or bee or butterfly

  Bounds through the crowd of merry leaves

And starts the rapture of thine eye

  To run for what it neer achieves.

But thou art on the bed of pain,

  So tells each poor forsaken toy.

Ah, could I see that happy hour

  When these shall be thy heart's employ,

And see thee toddle oer the plain,

  And stoop for flowers, and shout for joy.

Poems: Chiefly from Manuscript

ed. Edmund Blunden and Alan Porter

(London: Cobden-Sanderson, 1920)