Innocence

Lay, pretty child, in mine thy hand

And look at me,

A wanderer from sorrow's land,

Most poor is he.

Droop not thine eyes before my sight

So shyly bent,

Not full a glow, yet fill'd with light

And innocent;

They have such fervent, tender shine,

O sweetest child,

That all these troubling woes of mine

Are grown more mild.