Experience

Deborah danced, when she was two, As buttercups and daffodils do ; Spirited, frail, naively bold, Her hair a ruffled crest of gold. And whenever she spoke her voice went singing Like water up from a fountain springing.

But now her step is quiet and slow; She walks the way primroses go; Her hair is yellow instead of gilt. Her voice is losing its lovely lilt, And in place of her wild, delightful ways A quaint precision rules her days.

For Deborah now is three, and oh. She knows so much that she did not know.