Song - The Dolly's Mother
[W.W.] A little maid, of summers four - Did you compute her years, - And yet how infinitely more To me her age appears: I mark the sweet child's serious air, At her unplayful play, - The tiny doll she mothers there And lulls to sleep away, Grows - 'neath the grave similitude - An infant real, to me, And she a saint of motherhood In hale maturity. So, pausing in my lonely round, And all unseen of her, I stand uncovered - her profound And abject worshipper.
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"[W.W.]..."
Exploring the themes of classic, James Whitcomb Riley delivers a powerful performance in "Song - The Dolly's Mother"... ### Why We Love This Line At Linespedia, we believe that poetry is the ultimate sanctuary for the soul...