A year old, you were, my dear, yesterday:
Content to yourself you prattle away;
Opening its vague eyes in its sheltered nest,
Thus chirps the bird new-born, by winds carest,
Joyous to feel its plumes commence to grow.
Jeanne, your mouth is a rose-blossom in blow.
In those big books whose pictures are your joy,
Pictures you clutch, and sometimes, too, destroy,
There are sweet verses, but nought to compare
To your little face,—nothing half as fair!
It dimples with smiles like a summer lake
As I approach, my wonted kiss to take:
Poets the greatest have never written aught
As good, as in your eyes the budding thought.
Oh, the reverie there, strange and obscure!
The contemplation, like an angel's pure!
Jeanne, God cannot be far, since you are here.
Ah! You are a year old. It's an age, my dear.
Charmed with all things, you look fitfully grave:
O moment celestial of life!—We rave
About happiness, but happy alone
Are those on whose path no shadow is thrown,
