The little child crosses the street-- 
Why does she wave to me? 
What sees she in my wasted form 
To hail so joyously?

Her olive face and curly hair 
Are tidings of earth-peace, 
Her golden smile's a wreath of joy 
That bids my sorrows cease.

To me she is a fairy sprite-- 
A heavenly harbringer 
Whose sun-kissed eyes are songs of God-- 
But what am I to her?