“No one comforts me like my Effie,
Just I think that she does not try,—
Only looks with a wistful wonder
Why grown people should ever cry;
IV.
“While her little soft arms close tighter
Round my neck in their clinging hold:-
Well, I must not cry on your hair, dear,
For my tears might tarnish the gold.
V.
“I am tired of trying to read, dear;
It is worse to talk and seem gay:
There are some kinds of sorrow, Effie,
It is useless to thrust away.
VI.
“Ah, advice may be wise, my darling,
But one always knows it before;
And the reasoning down one’s sorrow
Seems to make one suffer the more.
VII.
“But my Effie won’t reason, will she?
Or endeavour to understand;
Only holds up her mouth to kiss me,
As she strokes my face with her hand.
VIII.