Only in sleep I see their faces,
 Children I played with when I was a child,
Louise comes back with her brown hair braided,
 Annie with ringlets warm and wild.

Only in sleep Time is forgotten —
 What may have come to them, who can know?
 Yet we played last night as long ago,
And the doll-house stood at the turn of the stair.

The years had not sharpened their smooth round faces,
 I met their eyes and found them mild —
Do they, too, dream of me, I wonder,
 And for them am I too a child?