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SEVENTEEN.
SHE is seventeen!
Sun-brown eyes and hair;
In her cheeks are set
Roses bright and rare.
She is seventeen!
Airy is her tread,
Idle dreams of love
Flitting through her head.
Could the bird of Time
But delay his wing;
Could the rolling year
Be but ever spring;
Could my lady fair,
Maid of seventeen,
Stand but ever thus
Hovering between
Childhood's fleeting smiles
And that fatal hour
When the woman wakes
Conscious of her power!
C. P.
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