The Sixth Age shifts
To lean and slender maidenhood,
With thoughtful eyes and quiet mien.

When all the others are at play,
Sometimes I like to go away
And sit beneath the willow tree,
And wait for thought to come to me.
It's just the dearest quiet spot,
Where I can think as well as not;
And little breezes softly blow,
That seem to make my feelings grow.
And all the sunny, golden air
Is full of living, everywhere.
Then, with a happy little sound,
The branches murmur all around,
So close, I scarcely can see through
The willow leaves against the blue.
Yet far less clearly can I see
Through tangled thoughts that come to me.
There seem to be, on every side,
Doors suddenly flung open wide;
Leading to places strange and fair;
I want to go,—yet don't quite dare.
I've been a little girl so long,
That, somehow, it seems almost wrong
To think how grown-up I shall be
In days that have to come to me.

Then, with my mind, I seem to look
At life, spread open as a book;
And I am almost glad, at last,
That I am growing old so fast.
Cornelia,—she just wants to be
A lady, and have friends to tea.
But I should like,—I'm sure I should,—
To be more nobly great and good.
Some one like Joan of Arc, you know;
Saint Katharine, or Mrs. Stowe;
And do brave deeds as they have done.
I wouldn't marry any one;
Unless,—well, maybe, if there came
A noble knight of doughty fame,
Or else an Emperor or King
Who wanted me like anything,
Maybe,—perhaps,—I might say yes,—
But likely I'd say no, I guess,
Well, as to that, some thought I'd give;
But of one thing I'm positive,
I'll have a softly trailing gown,—
Blue velvet edged with snow-white down.
But, such a robe as that to wear,
I'd have to be a Princess Fair.
And I'm quite sure I'd rather be
Nothing but just a grown-up me,
And have the wonders all come true
That through those opening doors I view.