TO A BUSH-BABY

Little one, so soft and light,

Haunting silent, darkened ways,

In the shadow of the night,

Thee I praise.

Such an elf as danced of old,

Light as thistle-down or froth,

By Titania's throne of gold,

Little Moth.

What strange fate linked thee and me,

In this world of hope and fears?

Surely God hath sheltered thee

From our tears.

Hands thou hast, and eyes that seem

Troubled, by some pain obscure,

As though life were but a dream,

Nothing sure.

Is thy tiny spirit vext,

As our own, by vague distress,

Haunted, by our life's perplext

Weariness?

Wondering, at all the strange

Loveliness of lapsing days;

Change that passeth into change,

Rain or rays?

Little hands that cling to me,

Helpless as mine own, and weak,

What in this world's mystery

Do we seek?