I know her lips are dewy as the rose-bud
When first it wakes, the flush of dawn to greet;
Her breath it fans my face like early zephyr
Up from the Southland roving, warm and sweet.
Her bird-like voice in simple, childish chatter,
No better music need you care to hear—
Unless it be the music of her laughter,
Like rillet, gurgling now, now tinkling clear.
And when, in short-lived moods of thoughtful silence,
You feel her tiny form against you lean,