As they did to Eve’s own darlings,
When their dimpled fingers pointed up
To stars of the cloudless evenings.
And how do you think that the baby looked,
As we took her out at sunset,
And set her down ’mong the tall ripe oats
(’Twas before the earth was dew-wet),
The baby looked at the golden oats
Above and around her growing,
And high up into God’s blue sky,