She seems like an ideal love,—
The poetry of childhood shown,
And yet loved with a real love,
As if she were our own;
A younger sister for the heart;
Like the young pheasant,
Her hair is brown and bright,
And her smile is pleasant—
With its rosy light.
Never can the memory part,
With red Riding-Hood the darling,
The flower of fairy lore.
Did the painter, dreaming
In a morning hour,
Catch the fairy seeming
Of this fairy flower?
Winning it with eager eyes—
From the old enchanted stories,
Lingering with a long delight
On the unforgotten glories
Of the infant sight?
Giving us a sweet surprise
In red Riding-Hood the darling,
The flower of fairy lore?
Too long in the meadow staying,
Where the cowslip bends,
With the buttercups delaying
As with early friends,
Did the little maiden stay.
Sorrowful the tale for us—
We too loiter mid life's flowers,
A little while so glorious,
So soon lost in darker hours.
All love lingering on their way,
Like red Riding-Hood the darling,
The flower of fairy lore.
