ELFIN FACES
Round me gather Rosycheeks,
Clean and fresh as peaches,
Smiling daughters of the Greeks,
Golden-tongued with speeches.
“Papa, tell your little girls
All about the fairies!”
Bless my soul! they all had curls
And Cupid-lips like cherries.
Yes, indeed, and starry eyes
And merry little dimples
Something like a sly surprise
Hid in cunning wimples.
Yes, and twinkling baby-feet
Dancing midst the flowers,
Gathering the honey sweet
Through the morning hours.
But at twilight is the time
Each becomes a brownie,
Murmuring a sleepy rhyme,
Growing soft and downy
Till—say, I declare there springs
Up from either shoulder
Fluffy little angel-wings
That at first enfold her,—
Then I have to rub my eyes
All alert and scarey,
For right out the window flies
Every single fairy
And I’m left there all alone,
Peering in the corners.
Little elfin-faces gone
Leave behind them mourners.