A DEDICATION.

We strayed, thy little hand in mine, One summer morning fresh and fine, In a wood where birches met; A great sun-bonnet served as frame To rounded childish cheeks aflame— Thy voice is ringing yet! Of birdies' songs, of flowers, of trees— Whate'er thy tender mind could seize— I wove thee tales, my pet: Ah, thou canst not remember it, And I can ne'er forget! And now my locks are thin and gray, For years since then have slipped away, For gladness or regret! And ah, the woods where now I roam, And those wide chambers of my home, Know thee no more, Ninette! Since I shall never find thee then, Oh, let this Book remind thee then Of a wood where birches met: For thou canst not remember it, And I can ne'er forget!