I saw you first, a golden child of seven,
wild roses dancing on the mountain wind,
and laughing with the hours.
The tangled sunshine, fretting through your curls,
escaped across hill-flowers.
Straight-limbed, with mischief eyes half-filled with heaven,
you swung your days of youth on ropes of pearls
to trip Love's feet behind.
I wonder when he ceased his shy pretence
that passing years could make no difference?