POETRY.
TO PH1LLIS, TEN MONTHS OLD.
BABY PHILL418, lady fair, Fat and small of size,
With the sun's gold in your hair, And the sea's blue in your eyes ;— How I wonder what your will is, Winsome Phillis !
When you point with tiny hand At your tiny toe, How am I to understand What you mean by doing so ? Prithee tell me what your will is, Dainty Phillis !
When you, wide-mouthed, on the floor Like a birdling sit,—
Twenty different notes try o'er
In a pretty talking fit,—
Guess it, can I, what your will is, Saucy Phillis ?
When you suddenly, untaught, Clap your hands amain, Is it that some new sweet thought Flashes through your baby-brain ? Come, unriddle what your will is, Merry Phillis !
When you gravely fingering scan Tiniest scatterings, Studying the Atomic Plan Are you, in those specks of things P Who can fathom what your will is, Quaintest Phillis ?
To the ceiling when you raise Finger and rapt face, Dear new-comer, do you gaze Back towards your heavenly place ? Half I fancy what your will is, Happy Phillis ! But when you come crawling after Me with eyes °shine, And with sudden burst of laughter Stretch your smell, plump arms to mine,— Ah ! I know then what your will is, Darling Phillis !
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