You never saw so wee a child,
Like changeling, like elf,
You never dreamed so slight a thing
As her grown self.

She wasn't like Winifred,
Not much like Anne,
She was more like Kenneth,
Still more like Dan.

But, oh, she was woman child.
And doll-toy
Would make her eyes bluer,
And stain her cheeks with joy.

Oh, I can tell you
That her heart was good,
She loved all the flowers,
Back in the wood.

She loved the wood-flowers,
And in their wreaths dressed,—
It's true she loved Indian pipes
And lady-slippers best.

I found her in the wood, once,
Dressed in no things,
Except—fading suddenly—
Great moth wings.

I cloaked and took her back,
But she only wept,
And at her wildly-beating heart
One little hand kept.

She loved cowslips,
But, my heart believes,
She loved better
Scarlet autumn leaves.

If there was scarlet
In the soul of her,
It was cap of leprechaun,
Wing of tanager.

Put not upon her
Any such stain
Who to be a mortal
Tried all in vain.