To a Hurt Child

WHAT, art thou hurt, Sweet? So am I,—
Cut to the heart;
Though I may neither moan nor cry,
To ease the smart.

Where was it, Love? Just here? So wide
Upon thy cheek ?
Oh, happy pain that needs no pride,
And may dare speak !

Lay here thy pretty head. One touch
Will heal lieal its worst;
While I, whose wound bleeds overmuch,
Go all unnursed.

There, Sweet! Run back now to thy play;
Forget thy woes.
I too was sorely hurt this day, —
But no one knows.