The prattle of the child I still could hear,
Mixed with the woman’s fond, caressing tone,
That came in loving words upon my ear.
“Come, Rosy, come!” Years, many years had gone,
But yet had left the recollection of that scene—
The woman and the fair-haired child that knelt
And picked the daisies on the roadside green.
I looked. The old familiar road was there—
A woman, wan and stooping, stood there too;
And beckoned slowly, and with vacant stare