To Elizabeth M—,
On Her Twelfth Birthday.

My dear Elizabeth. It irks me sore
To think that on the eleventh you should be
All unremembered of those days of yore
When friendship played a part 'twixt thee and me,
Therefore by virtue of that bond of friendship, I,
This gift now send to keep me in your memory.
Too soon, I fear, you have to twelve years grown,
So swiftly run the years,—frail sighs of Time,
Faint breathings of Time's weariness outblown
Athwart Man's destiny, like frosty rime.
Seems only yesterday this mischief-loving elf
Sat on my knee a tale to hear, forgetful of herself.
And I would watch your face change as the tale
Zig-zagged a course from shade to sunshine, shift
To the unexpected, never growing stale,
But ever dancing on with upward lift.
And as each story dealt with things both weird and strange,
So your face, close to mine, suffered a constant change.
Those tales of cats and dogs, of frogs and mice,
Of rabbits, worms and flies—are gone the way
Of many things quite valueless, but nice,
That entertain one's fancy for a day.
Well, let them go! They served a purpose of their own.
And now your clock strikes twelve and you a school-girl grown!
This little birthday gift I haste to send
With many a loving wish for all that's fine
And worthy to adorn my one-time friend,
Whose baby-heart once beat in tune with mine.
May Love's seed grow into a widely spreading tree,
An emblem of some happy hours 'twixt thee and me.

—H. E. Gunter.

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