To Anna Three Years Old (1)

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.