Anna Maria, born 2nd June 1820

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 by, 


The happiest thing in all the land 


Except the bee and butterfly. 


The weed-based arches' walls that stride 


O'er where the meadow water falls 


Will turn thee from thy path aside 


To gaze upon the mossy walls. 


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, 


O'er 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 ne'er achieves; 


The simple reasoning arguments 


Shaped to thy fancy's little view, 


The joys and rapturous intents 


That everywhere pursue. 


So dreamed I over hope's young boon, 


When merry summer was returning, 


And little thought that time so soon 


Would change my early hope to mourning. 


I thought to have heard thee mid the bowers 


To mock the cuckoo's merry song, 


And see thee seek thy daisy flowers 


That's been thy anxious choice so long. 


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 o'er the plain, 


And stoop for flowers, and shout for joy.