The chickiebids are in their nest
Overhead,—
Dimpled shapes of rosy rest
Curled a-bed.
Night has sung her spell, and thrown
Her dark net round
Their heads; their pearly ears have grown
Deaf to all other sound.
O of me how you are part,
Babies mine!
Your hearts are children of my heart.
The inner sign
Of my eyes lurks in your eyes,
And your soul,
That so brims with Paradise,
Stirs what wonders roll
Unsuspected in myself,
Who had thought
Life half death, till childhood's elf —
Sign of angels men shall be —
Came and taught
A youth eterne within futurity.