In the bright days for you but just begun,
That I am worthy to be held your sun?
My little loyal worshipper, the bloom
Of whose fair face makes bright the midnight gloom,
Turned ever steadily to my near room,
Knowing so well, with instinct fine and true,
The one glad door through which I come to you,
Caring for naught but what that hides from view,—
How long, dear one, how many precious years,