Ran hand in hand with the bright dewy morn,
The sky by sunlight with all colors shading.
These colors are to grow, from where, an infant,
Thou sleepest cradled by thy mother’s side,
On through thy childhood’s beauty, every instant,
To maiden loveliness—thy mother’s pride.
And she will guide the pencil, hers the art
To deepen Nature’s lineaments, or alter:
To image Heaven or Earth upon the heart—
What if her love should err, her pencil falter!