Chapter XXXI

What draws us childwards? Cherub charm and grace,
The frolic kitten and the tricksy elf,
Or heaven reflected in the serious face,
And the divine unconscious of itself?

What art makes magnets of the helpless hands
That fitfully caress and feebly touch,
What sorcery entwines the flowery bands
That chafe so sweetly and compel so much?

For thee I know not, but for me I know;
I know the charm that everywhere, abroad,
At home, and wheresoever I may go,
Enthrones the child my sovereign and my lord.

Not beauty, no, nor grace, nor gleams of heaven;
The passport to my heart is—being seven.