A Child's Fancy Poem by Menella Bute Smedley

O little flowers, you love me so,
You could not do without me;
O little birds that come and go,
You sing sweet songs about me;
O little moss, observed by few,
That round the tree is creeping,
You like my head to rest on you,
When I am idly sleeping.

O rushes by the river side,
You bow when I come near you;
O fish, you leap about with pride,
Because you think I hear you;
O river, you shine clear and bright,
To tempt me to look in you;
O water-lilies, pure and white,
You hope that I shall win you.
O pretty things, you love me so,
I see I must not leave you;
You'd find it very dull, I know,—
I should not like to grieve you.
Don't wrinkle up, you silly moss;
My flowers, you need not shiver;
My little buds, don't look so cross;
Don't talk so loud, my river.

I'm telling you I will not go,
It's foolish to feel slighted;
It's rude to interrupt me so,
You ought to be delighted.
Ah! now you're growing good, I see,
Though anger is beguiling:
The pretty blossoms nod at me,
I see a robin smiling.
And I will make a promise, dears,
That will content you, maybe:
I'll love you through the happy years,
Till I'm a nice old lady!
True love (like yours and mine) they say
Can never think of ceasing,
But year by year, and day by day,
Keeps steadily increasing.