To the Little Girl

Who Sits in Front

of Me in Church

How many Sundays

I have smiled to see

Your small gold head

three rows in front of me,

And how your soft smooth hair

curved out to seek

The most engaging dimple

in your cheek.

How many times,

the service incomplete,

Grown tired, you've turned

and knelt upon the seat

And stared across the back

of it at me

With childhood's

infinite solemnity!

Do you recall the day,

convention scorning,

I said to you, with silent lips,

"Good morning".

And how your wide,

unsmiling gaze grew more

Inscrutable

than it had been before!

Alas, that guardian angels

should elect

To make so small

a maid so circumspect!

For two whole Sundays

I have hoped in vain

You would relent

and turn around again.

And then, today,

oh, grave enchanting child,

How suddenly and dazzlingly

you smiled!

- Sara Henderson Hay