A DEDICATION.
(After CARL EWALD.)
We strayed, thy little hand in mine,
One summer morning fresh and fine,
In a wood where birches met ;
A great sun-bonnet served as frame
To rounded childish cheeks aflame -
Thy voice is ringing yet!
Of birdies' songs, of flowers, of trees -
Whatever thy tender mind could seize -
I wove thee tales, my pet :
Ah, thou canst not remember if,
And I can ne'er forget!
And now my locks are thin and gray,
For years since then have slipped away,
For gladness or regret!
And ah, the woods where now I roam,
And those wide chambers of my home,
Know thee no more, Ninette!
Since I shall never find thee then,
Oh, let this Book remind thee then
Of a wood where birches met:
For thou canst not remember it,
And I can ne'er forget!
