Lucy is but a child as yet,
And full of mirth and glee,
But still in Lucy's eye is set
A light that I love to see.
For it speaks of the coming golden time,
When, like April flowers in a wood,
She will blossom up into the happy prime
Of innocent maidenhood.
Then the smile will be sweeter upon her lip,
And brighter upon her brow,
And her heart take a sweeter dream and slip
Into other thoughts than now.
This is their coming light that lies
Like sunlight within the stream,
In the glowing depths of her large sweet eyes
That droop at times to dream.
Ah me, what wishes such light will get
To perfect into flower!
But Lucy is but a child as yet,
Nor heeds her coming dower.
Then why should I touch her heart's sweet chords
In my poet's mood, and try
To shape to the music of earthly words
Their tender melody?
I will leave this to the summer in bud,
That unseen, in its sweetness, weaves
A glory to round her maidenhood,
As the wind swells out the leaves.
But speak not to Lucy as yet of this,
Though her eyes in their dreaming may,
And hint, as they droop, of their coming bliss,
As the light foretells the day.
But let mirth be upon her lip and brow,
And within her large dark eyes,
Till her own sweet thoughts that are budding now
Waft her into her Paradise.