A little skein of tangled floss they lie,

(You always said they should have been a girl’s.)

The tears will come—you cannot quite tell why—

They fall unheeded on that mass—his curls.

Poor little silken skein, so dear to you.

“’Twere better short,” the wiser father said,

“He’s getting older now.”—Alas, how true!

And yet you wonder where the years have fled.

“’Twere better short——” the while your fond heart yearned

To keep them still, reluctant standing by,

You saw your little angel, earthward turned,

Yet all unknowing, lay his halo by.

Soft little threads! They held you with such strength!

You knew the way each wanton ringlet fell,

You knew each shining tendril’s golden length,

How oft they’ve tangled, only you can tell.

In dusky twilight shadows, oh, how oft

You’ve seen their light along your shoulder lie.

You leaned your cheek to touch the masses soft,

The while you crooned some drowsy lullaby.

How often when the sun was dawning red

You bent above him in the early ray,

And from that glory round the baby head

You drew your light for all the weary day.

And now—you start—the front door gives a slam—

The hall resounds with little, hurrying feet,

He climbs upon your knee—the wee, shorn lamb,—

And dries your tears with kisses, warm and sweet.

You fold your sorrow from his happy eyes—

(You always said they should have been a girl’s.)

Half of his Eden sunlight buried lies

Amid the meshes of those baby curls.