I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
THE BABIE.
I found "The Babie" in Stedman's "Anthology." It is placed in this
volume by permission of the poet, Jeremiah Eames Rankin, of Cleveland
(1828-), because it captured the heart of a ten-year-old boy whose
fancy was greatly moved by the two beautiful lines:
"Her face is like an angel's face,
I'm glad she has no wings."
Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes,
Nae stockin' on her feet;
Her supple ankles white as snaw,
Or early blossoms sweet.
Her simple dress o' sprinkled pink,
Her double, dimplit chin,
Her puckered lips, and baumy mou',
With na ane tooth within.
Her een sae like her mither's een,
Twa gentle, liquid things;
Her face is like an angel's face:
We're glad she has nae wings.
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