As delicate as harp-trilling fingers
The little girl tripped across the lawn,
The sunlight flinging gold coins in her hair
That rang—still ring–of happiness so bright
That I was lifted up into the air,
Made lighter for this treasure of delight,
And raising my good pipe I piped a lay
Of tunes so ripe, of merry tones so rare,
That children skipped on out from everywhere,
Some to dance and other ones to swing,
And some to stand off all alone and sing—
A gladsome riot there of joy made sweet
Of kiddies bubbling up to be complete.
And now this playful morn is halfway through
I sit and write this lovely scene for you,
That you may see, while all the world seems dim,
Fair happiness lies just beyond the rim.