y Pitch-dark Angel with a Rosy Tongue,
My Own—my Own,
Why can't the grown-up Things we live among
Let us alone?
Why do they have to talk the livelong day
About such silly things?
But if they must,—why can't they, anyway,
Have either Tails or Wings?

Of Course I cannot love them as they are,
As much as You.
Why aren't they ever really Beautiful,
—They too?—
With curly coats, like wool;
And floppy ears to pull;
Yes, and a wide pink mouth, with such a Smile!
Yes, and a Tail that beats time all the while;
Beautiful, Beautiful!—
And golden stars, for eyes,
Behind the darkest trees
(Till your hair's parted)!
Why can't they have such darling ways as these?—
Why can't they be so lovely when they sneeze?—
Why can't they ever be so tender-hearted,
Or even look so wise
As You?—
My Wonderful (even if you Won't say Mew),
My True Prince in Disguise!
Why can't they be
As funny, when they try to sing a song?
And when, for everything that I can do,
They Won't Agree,—
Why can't they think they're always in the wrong?
—Like You!

Why you,—O Precious Thing,
You are swift (almost) as any Sparrow.—
Over the tall grass how you arch and spring,
Yes, like a bow and arrow!—
Oh, and how good to see you, when it snows,
Plough a long, lovely pathway with your nose!
(No one grown-up could do it, I suppose.)

My dearest Blessing and my Very Own,
Even when I am grown,
Never do you forsake me!
If you don't go to heaven when you die,
—Neither will I:
Nothing can ever make me!
I won't go,
For all that they can do.
No; on the steps Outside, and down, below,
Forever and ever and ever, I'll stay too!
—With You.