O, Henry, leave me,—leave me here a child
That never shall be woman,—ne'er shall seek
The bitter knowledge of the human world.
[A fawn comes to her from the wood. She fondles it]
See, brother! I would ope no book less pure
Than these large eyes. Ah, me, was ever soul
So full of earth as mine? I can love nothing
But woods and streams, and these unspeaking things
That reasonless may build no dream of God.
My Henry, why this fear that if I go