On a Young Girl

 
The mother of the Gracchi plays

Cards with me:

And each deliberate gesture says

Unerringly

That she will be a woman, who

Distinguishes the good and true

From all the jokers in the pack.

Easily

Do I foresee

Her children’s children gathered to

Honour her in every fruitful year

Who now, at twelve, with wheatlike hair,

Smiles quietly back

At me.