Song - The Dolly's Mother

[W.W.] A little maid, of summers four— Did you compute her years,— And yet how infinitely more To me her age appears: I mark the sweet child's serious air, At her unplayful play,— The tiny doll she mothers there And lulls to sleep away, Grows—'neath the grave similitude— An infant real, to me, And she a saint of motherhood In hale maturity. So, pausing in my lonely round, And all unseen of her, I stand uncovered—her profound And abject worshipper.