How they sang, those close clustering toddlers, their curly heads tier above tier,
With never a trace of restraint, and unknowing the shadow of fear!
Here timidity checks not the young, and here weariness haunts not the old.
There is laughter on age-shrivelled lips, and the eyes of mere babies are bold
With the confidence born but of love. Even imbeciles, helpless and blind,
Shut out at each sense from full life, yet can feel unseen tendance is kind,
And sit silently placid, or burst into song of a heart-searching sort—
Muffled speech from unplumbed spirit-depths, yet inspired by the impulse of sport.
Have a chat, my dear Madam—shrink not, they are women!—with age-wrinkled dames,
Who are busily bed-quilting here, while the Autumn sun ruddily flames