And she, when young, was loved by another,
And in that mother's nursery
Played her mamma, like you and me.
When that mamma was tiny as you
She had a happy mother too:
On, on ... Yes, presto! Puff! Pee-fee!—
And Grandam Eve and the apple-tree.
O, into distance, smalling, dimming,
Think of that endless row of women,
Like beads, like posts, like lamps, they seem—