The bud against the fallen flower.
Who knows these little maidens’ dreams?
Unsullied,—but with mischief fraught:
How like a woman Georgy seems,
Yet by what subtle instinct taught?
The question’s vague!—some day, perhaps,
She’ll find the answer, for the rogue is
A match, at twelve, for most young chaps,
And right away beyond us fogies.
For me,—I sit and watch her twirls,