All your world yet hardly lies out of reach
Of ten little fingers and ten little toes. 
You are a seed for the sky there to teach
(And the sun and the wind and the rain) as it grows.

Just a green leaf piercing up to the day,
Pale fleck of June to come, just to be seen
Through the rough crumble of rubble and clay
Lifting its loveliness, dawn-child, Karlene!

Fragile as fairycraft, dew-dream of love,—­
Never a clod that has marred the slim stalk,
Never a stone but its frail fingers move,
Bent on the blue sky and nothing can balk!

Blue sky and wind-laughters, that is thy dream. 
Ah the brave days when thy leafage shall toss
High where gold noondays and sunsets a-stream
Mix with its moving and kiss it across.

There the great clouds shall go lazily by,
Coo! thee with shadows and dazzle with shine,
Drench thee with rain-guerdons, bless thee with sky,
Till all the knowledge of earth shall be thine.

Wind from the ice-floe and wind from the palm,
Wind from the mountains and wind from the lea—­
How they will sing thee of tempest and calm! 
How they will lure thee with tales of the sea!

What will you be in that summer, Karlene? 
Apple-tree, cherry-tree, lily, or corn? 
Red rose or yellow rose, gray leaf or green? 
Which will you choose now the year’s at its morn?

Somewhere even now in thy heart is the will,—­
“I shall be Golden Rod, slender and tall—­
I shall be Pond Lily, secret and still—­
I shall be Sweetbriar, Queen of them all—­

“I shall give shade for the weary to rest—­
I shall grow flax for the naked to wear—­
Figs for a feast and all comers to guest—­
Wreaths that girls twine in the laugh of their hair—­

“Ivy for scholars and myrtle for lovers,
Laurel for conquerors, poets, and kings—­
Broad-spreading beech-boughs whose benison covers
Clamor of bird-notes and flutter of wings—­

“I shall rise tall as an elm in my grace—­
I shall be clothed as catalpa is clad—­
Poets shall crown me with lyrics of praise—­
Lovers for lure of my blossoms go mad!”

Which shall it be, baby?  Guess you at all? 
Only I know in the lull of the year
You have said now where your choosing shall fall,
Only you have not yet heard yourself, dear.

So, like a mocking-bird, up in the trees,
I watching wondering where you have grown,
Borrow a note from a birdfellow’s glees,
Fittest to sing you, and make it my own.

Only I know as I wonder, Karlene,
Singing up here where you think me a star,
Heaven’s still above me, and some one serene
Laughs in the blue sky and knows what you are.

KARLENE.

Good-morning, Karlene.  It’s a very
Fine beautiful world we are in. 
Well, you do look as ripe as a berry;
And, pardon me, such a real chin!