THE CHICKIEBIDS.

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.