The latter, I think—a lamb she received?
You’d never have thought it—never believed,
But the girl owned a lamb last fall.
Its wool was subtly, silky white,
Color of lucent obliteration of night—
Like the shimmering snow or—our Clothild’s arm!—
You’ve seen her arm—her right, I mean—
The other she scalded a-washing, I ween—
How white it is and soft and warm?
Ah, there was soul’s heart-love, deep, true and tender,