Joy murmured a sweet undersong,
I talkt with angels, with them fed.
It was an old deserted room;
There was a skylight strait above,
And the blue sky lookt thro' like love,
Softening and coloring mortal gloom.
No playmate had I, knew no game,
Yet sometimes left my book to run
And blow bright bubbles in the sun—
In after life we do the same.