To Tochterchen: On Her Birthday

As one doth touch a flower wherein the dew Trembles to fall, as one unplaits the ply Of morning gossamer, so tenderly My spirit touches thine. Yet, daughter true And fair, great Launcelot's mighty nerve and thew Best clove a king or caught a butterfly, (Since each extreme is perfect mastery -Accurate cause repaid in the fine due Of just effect-) and, child, it should be so With Love. The same that nicely plundereth The honeyed zephyrs for thy cates and wine Should train thee with the tasks of toil and woe, Or hold thee against adverse life and death, Or give thee from my breast to dearer arms than mine.