THE BABY’S CURLS
By Margaret Houston
A little skein of tangled floss they lie,
(You always said they should have been a girl’s.)
The tears will come—you cannot quite tell why—
They fall unheeded on that mass—his curls.
Poor little silken skein, so dear to you.
“’Twere better short,” the wiser father said,
“He’s getting older now.”—Alas, how true!
And yet you wonder where the years have fled.