[W.W.] A Little Maid, Of Summers Four - Did You Compute Her Years, - And Yet How Infinitely More To Me Her Age Appears: I Mark The Sweet Child'S Serious Air, At Her Unplayful Play, - The Tiny Doll She Mothers There And Lulls To Sleep Away, Grows - 'Neath The Grave Similitude - An Infant Real, To Me, And She A Saint Of Motherhood In Hale Maturity. So, Pausing In My Lonely Round, And All Unseen Of Her, I Stand Uncovered - Her Profound And Abject Worshipper.