Primitiæ

Sweet child ! I write, because I fain would see
In thy unspotted book my jagged hand,
The rudest sketch and primal prophecy
Of what thy wit may win or sense command.

Some men would tell thee that thy soul is yet
An album, open for all men to write in,
I deem not so, for thou canst not forget
What now thou art, and what I most delight in.

Ere thou wert born "into this breathing world,"
God wrote some characters upon thy heart.

Oh, let them not, like beads of dew impearl'd
On morning blades, before the noon depart !

But morning drops before the noon exhale,
And yet those drops appear again at even ;

So childish innocence on earth must fail,
Yet may return to usher thee to heaven.