SWEET ’STEEN
Little outgrown pinafore
Hanging there behind the door,
Seldom seen,
Sprigged all over full of buds
Like the yesterdays whose suds
Only partly washed you out—
What d’you mean
By reviving such a time
Like a phantom put to rout
Till it runs to rue and rhyme?
Ah, ’tis sad to think of it—
Missy that you used to fit
Till between
Top and bottom was a glance,
Now is wearing styles of France;
For alas, she’s grown to be
Sweet sixteen,
With young ladyship’s conceit
And its sprouting vanity—
Sixteen, pinafore, and sweet!