Why?
The little child crosses the street—
Why does she wave to me?
What sees she in my wasted form
To hail so joyously?
Her olive face and curly hair
Are tidings of earth-peace,
Her golden smile’s a wreath of joy
That bids my sorrows cease.
To me she is a fairy sprite—
A heavenly harbringer
Whose sun-kissed eyes are songs of God—
But what am I to her?
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