Early

I like to lie and wait to see
My mother braid her hair.
It is as long as it can be,
And yet she doesn’t care.
I love my mother’s hair.

And then the way her fingers go;
They look so quick and white,—
In and out, and to and fro,
And braiding in the light,
And it is always right.

So then she winds it, shiny brown,
Around her head into a crown,
Just like the day before.
And then she looks and pats it down,
And looks a minute more;
While I stay here all still and cool.
O, isn’t morning beautiful?

THE YOUNG THINGS.