Page:Field Poems of Childhood.djvu/71

 That I count as passing sweet

All the pain her moods impart,

And I bless the little feet

That go trampling on my heart:

Ah, how lonely life would be

But for little Sans-Merci!

Little Mistress Sans-Merci,

Cuddle close this night to me,

And the heart, which all day long

Ruthless thou hast trod upon,

Shall outpour a soothing song

For its best-belovèd one—

All its tenderness for thee,

Little Mistress Sans-Merci!