Sue alike for your regard;
And grateful you for each; the mean, the rare
To your frank childishness as welcome are.
Tossing your naked limbs on the glad sod
You know not you will be—perhaps are—a God!
Yea, Child, who, than you all love,
More Divine in Heav’n above!
Ev’n when babyhood becomes boyhood, still
Nature spreads her bounty in sheer good-will.
Honey from the sturdy oak, like dew, drips;