Or when anon her dainty, dimpled fingers
Come creeping trustfully your own between,
Somehow there’s soothing in the touch, you fancy,
A secret charm for sending grief astray:
I half believe she is a born magician—
This wee, wee elf the wind could blow away.
And that is Edith, that is neighbor Edith,
Our winsome friend the other side the stile.
When we’re sad-hearted and the days are dreary,
We go and borrow her a little while.