To the Watcher

SHE is still a child, my lord. She runs about your palace and plays and tries to make you a plaything of her own.
When her hair tumbles down and her careless garment drags in the dust, she heeds not. When she builds her house with sands and decks her dolls with tinsels, she thinks she is doing great works.
Her elders warn her even not to hold you of small account. She is frightened, and she knows not how to serve you. Suddenly she starts up from her play and reminds herself she must do what she is bid.
She falls asleep when you speak to her, and answers not. And the flower you gave her in the morning slips to the dust from her hand.
When the storm bursts in the evening with a sudden clash and darkness is on land and sky, she is sleepless; her dolls lie scattered on the earth and she clings to you in terror.
We are ever afraid lest she should be guilty of remissness. But smiling you peep at the door of her playhouse, you watch her at her games, and you know her.
You know that the child sitting on dust is your destined bride. You know that all her play will end in love. For her you keep ready a jeweled seat in your house and precious honey in the golden jar.