TO ONE WHO WISHED ME SIXTEEN YEARS OLD.
By ALICE CARY.
Suppose your hand with power supplied,
Say, would you slip it ’neath my hair.
And turn it to the golden side
Of sixteen years? Suppose you dare,
And I stood here with smiling mouth,
Red cheeks, and hands all softly white,
Exceeding beautiful with youth,
And that some tiptoe-treading sprite