She is, as she sits now, a slip–not mere,
As any whom my voice will reach will hear,
And as who speak with her will find quite clear.
Though young, and small with youth, she is of will
Quite strong, of insight keen, and thinks no ill
Of those who do no ill. To them, she still
Behaves with grace to far surpass her years–
Although her tongue will redden many ears,
Such is the skill it has. I have my fears
For her, of course, as I could hardly not.
The evils of the world, I’ve not forgot;
I worry that she will be by them caught.
But who might think my daughter to restrain
Will soon rethink that thought, I still maintain.

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