Page:The Hunting of the Snark (1876).djvu/11

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Inscribed to a dear Child:

in memory of golden summer hours

and whispers of a summer sea.

Girt with a boyish garb for boyish task Eager she wields her spade: yet loves as well Rest on a friendly knee, intent to ask The tale he loves to tell.   Rude spirits of the seething outer strife, Unmeet to read her pure and simple spright, Deem, if you list, such hours a waste of life Empty of all delight!   Chat on, sweet Maid, and rescue from annoy Hearts that by wiser talk are unbeguiled. Ah, happy he who owns that tenderest joy, The heart-love of a child!   Away fond thoughts, and vex my soul no more! Work claims my wakeful nights, my busy days— Albeit bright memories of that sunlit short Yet haunt my dreaming gaze!