On a Child's Portrait

Deep in the fluted hollow of its shells
Dimly some echo of the ocean dwells.
Still in September's fruitage, mellow-cored,
The filtered sweets of golden noons are stored.
And shimmering on a blue-bird's migrant wings
Some poignant touch of June's lost azure clings.

Still in the rustling sheaf to-day there gleams
The lingering gold of April's vanished dreams.
Still in the cell of one autumnal bee
I find lost summer in epitome.
And all that better life that I would lead,
Writ small in this, one childish face, I read.