There is a child who will come to me,
Often at dusk, when my mind is free.
She is the child that I used to be,
When I was only nine.
Over her hair is a wreath of flowers,
Those are the thoughts of the golden hours
Spent in the glory of childhood's bowers,
Fancy, those thoughts were mine!
Butterflies whiter than flakes of snow
Hover around her lips, and oh!
They are the prayers that I used to know,
God may remember still.
God who they tell us will not forget
Even a penitent child's regret!
Now I am callous of prayers, and yet —
Ah, how I hope that He will.