Even wee Bertha, turning her eyes,
Searching and slow from one face to another—
Wrinkling her brow in a comic surprise,
And winking so soberly at her pale mother,
For a baby, is wondrously pretty and wise!
Well, let the "vine" recline in the sun—
Three such rare "clusters" in three short years,
Have sapped the red wine in her veins that should run—
For the choicest of species the gardener fears!
Lillian, queen of the lilies shall be,