O Little One, Daughter, My Dearest, With Your Smiles And Your Beautiful Curls, And Your Laughter, The Brightest And Clearest, O Gravest And Gayest Of Girls; With Your Hands That Are Softer Than Roses, And Your Lips That Are Lighter Than Flowers, And That Innocent Brow That Discloses A Wisdom More Lovely Than Ours; With Your Locks That Encumber, Or Scatter In A Thousand Mercurial Gleams, And Those Feet Whose Impetuous Patter I Hear And Remember In Dreams; With Your Manner Of Motherly Duty, When You Play With Your Dolls And Are Wise; With Your Wonders Of Speech, And The Beauty In Your Little Imperious Eyes; When I Hear You So Silverly Ringing Your Welcome From Chamber Or Stair. When You Run To Me, Kissing And Clinging, So Radiant, So Rosily Fair; I Bend Like An Ogre Above You; I Bury My Face In Your Curls; I Fold You, I Clasp You, I Love You. O Baby, Queen-Blossom Of Girls!