Early

 like to lie and wait, to see

My Mother braid her hair.

It is as long as it can be,

And yet she doesn't care.

I love my Mother's hair.

And then the way her fingers go;

They look so quick and white,—

In and out, and to and fro,

And braiding in the light;

And it is always right.

So then she winds it, shiny brown,

Around her head into a crown,

Just like the day before.

And then she looks, and pats it down,

And looks, a minute more.—

While I stay here, all still and cool.

Oh, isn't Morning beautiful?

[Pg 48]

The Wind's East

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