And a wee cracked cup on the closet shelf.
She can play with only a row of pins;
Houses and gardens, arks and inns,
She makes with her chubby fingers small,
And she never asks for a toy at all.
Poor little girl and rich little girl,
How nice it would be if in Time’s swift swirl
You could—perhaps-not change your places,
But catch a glimpse of each other’s faces;
For each to the other could something give,