I saw a little child one day Blowing some thistle down away. How light they flew! The wings of thought Grew weary as their course was sought, And e’en the boy, with heart as light, Sighed when he failed to trace their flight; But as by chance, out of the air, One fell upon his sunny hair. I saw the tiny sail unfurl, And faintly fan a slender curl. A fairy’s boat it seemed to be, And yet a pirate sailed the sea, And anchored on a golden wave That hid no evil deed—no grave. That thought! Did Heaven foresee the doom? From off his curl I shook the bloom. I know not where it chanced to fall, In garden, park, or castle wall; A desert’s sand may scorch its root, A crystal brook it may pollute; A different course from mine it took, And I the path at once forsook. I only know that summer day, Far from the child ’twas blown away. |