5
In Baby's world, the trees shake their leaves at him, murmuring verses in
an ancient tongue that dates from before the age of meaning, and the moon
feigns to be of his own age--the solitary baby of night.
In the world of the old, flowers dutifully blush at the make-believe of
faery legends, and broken dolls confess that they are made of clay.
6
_My world_, when I was a child, you were a little girl-neighbour, a loving
timid stranger.
Then you grew bold and talked to me across the fence, offering me toys and
flowers and shells.
Next you coaxed me away from my work, you tempted me into the land of the
dusk or the weedy corner of some garden in mid-day loneliness.
At length you told me stories about bygone times, with which the present
ever longs to meet so as to be rescued from its prison in the moment.
7
How often, great Earth, have I felt my being yearn to flow over you,
sharing in the happiness of each green blade that raises its signal banner
in answer to the beckoning blue of the sky!
I feel as if I had belonged to you ages before I was born.
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