THE BABY SORCERESS 335 
THE BABY SORCERESS 
Our baby sits beneath the tall elm-trees, 
‘A wreath of tangled ribbons in her hands ; 
She twines and twists the many -colored 
strands, 
A little sorceress, weaving destinies. 
Now the pure white she grasps; now naught 
can please 
But strips of crimson, lurid as the brands 
From passion’s fires, or yellow, like the sands 
That lend soft setting to the azure seas. 
And so with sweet incessant toil she fills 
A summer hour, still following fancies new, 
Till through my heart a sudden terror thrills 
Lest, as she weaves, her aimless choice prove 
true. 
Thank God, our fates proceed not from our 
wills ! 
The Power that spins the thread shall blend 
the hue. 
