The Sixth Age shifts
To lean and slender maidenhood,
With thoughtful eyes and quiet mien.
When all the others are at play,
Sometimes I like to go away
And sit beneath the willow tree,
And wait for thought to come to me.
It's just the dearest quiet spot,
Where I can think as well as not;
And little breezes softly blow,
That seem to make my feelings grow.
And all the sunny, golden air
Is full of living, everywhere.
Then, with a happy little sound,
The branches murmur all around,
So close, I scarcely can see through
The willow leaves against the blue.
Yet far less clearly can I see
Through tangled thoughts that come to me.
There seem to be, on every side,
Doors suddenly flung open wide;
Leading to places strange and fair;
I want to go,—yet don't quite dare.
I've been a little girl so long,
That, somehow, it seems almost wrong
To think how grown-up I shall be
In days that have to come to me.
