VI

The Sixth Age shifts To lean and slender maidenhood, With thoughtful eyes and quiet mien.

When all the others are at play, Sometimes I like to go away And sit beneath the willow tree, And wait for thought to come to me. It's just the dearest quiet spot, Where I can think as well as not; And little breezes softly blow, That seem to make my feelings grow. And all the sunny, golden air Is full of living, everywhere. Then, with a happy little sound, The branches murmur all around, So close, I scarcely can see through The willow leaves against the blue. Yet far less clearly can I see Through tangled thoughts that come to me. There seem to be, on every side, Doors suddenly flung open wide; Leading to places strange and fair; I want to go,—yet don't quite dare. I've been a little girl so long, That, somehow, it seems almost wrong To think how grown-up I shall be In days that have to come to me.

Then, with my mind, I seem to look At life, spread open as a book; And I am almost glad, at last, That I am growing old so fast. Cornelia,—she just wants to be A lady, and have friends to tea. But I should like,—I'm sure I should,— To be more nobly great and good. Some one like Joan of Arc, you know; Saint Katharine, or Mrs. Stowe; And do brave deeds as they have done. I wouldn't marry any one; Unless,—well, maybe, if there came A noble knight of doughty fame, Or else an Emperor or King Who wanted me like anything, Maybe,—perhaps,—I might say yes,— But likely I'd say no, I guess, Well, as to that, some thought I'd give; But of one thing I'm positive, I'll have a softly trailing gown,— Blue velvet edged with snow-white down. But, such a robe as that to wear, I'd have to be a Princess Fair. And I'm quite sure I'd rather be Nothing but just a grown-up me, And have the wonders all come true That through those opening doors I view.