Edmund Clarence Stedman (1833–1908)

SHE seemed an angel to our infant eyes!

Once, when the glorifying moon revealed

Her who at evening by our pillow kneeled—

Soft-voiced and golden-haired, from holy skies

Flown to her loves on wings of Paradise—

We looked to see the pinions half concealed.

The Tuscan vines and olives will not yield

Her back to me, who loved her in this wise,

And since have little known her, but have grown

To see another mother tenderly

Watch over sleeping darlings of my own:

Perchance the years have changed her; yet alone

This picture lingers: still she seems to me

The fair, young angel of my infancy.