  PRITHE tell me, don’t you think Little girls are dearest With their cheeks of tempting pink, And their eyes the clearest? Don’t you know that they are best And of all the loveliest? Of all girls with roguish ways They are surely truest; Sunshine gleams through all their days, They see skies the bluest, And they wear a diadem Summer has bestowed on them. Lydia doesn’t care a cent For the newest dances; She is not on flirting bent, Has no killing glances, But without the slightest art She has captured many a heart. Older sisters cut you dead, Little sisters never; They don’t giggle when they’ve said Something very clever,— They just get behind a chair, Frowning, smiling at you there. Florence, Lydia, Margaret Or a gentle Mary, They form friendships that, once set, Never more can vary,— Stanch young friends they are and true Always clinging close to you. Buds must into blossoms blow, (Morn so early leaves us!) Maids must into women grow, (There’s the thing that grieves us!) Psyche knots of flying curls, That’s good-bye to little girls! |
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