My Little Girlie.

Little girlie tell to me What your wistful blue eyes see? Why you like to stand so high, Looking at the far off sky. Does a tiny Fairy flit In the pretty blue of it? Or is it that you hope so soon To see the rising yellow Moon? Or is it—as I think I've heard— You're looking for a little Bird To come and sit upon a spray, And sing the summer night away?