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Baby Poems

Table of Contents

  1. "All On Account of The Baby" by Anonymous
  2. Just a Little Bit of Baby by Amos Russel Wells
  3. "Only a Baby Small" by Matthias Barr
  4. Only by Harriet Prescott Spofford
  5. Infant Joy by William Blake
  6. Baby by George Macdonald
  7. Choosing a Name by Mary Lamb
  8. Weighing the Baby by Ethel Lynn Beers
  9. May I Hold the Baby? by Amos Russel Wells
  10. The Babie by Elizabeth Akers
  11. Little Hands by Laurence Binyon
  12. Little Feet by Elizabeth Akers
  13. The Little Foot by Hannah Flagg Gould
  14. Etude Realiste by Algernon Charles Swinburne
  15. To a New-Born Baby Girl by Grace Hazard Conkling
  16. To a New-Born Child by Cosmo Monkhouse
  17. My Little Girl's Hand by Anonymous
  18. To Little Renee on First Seeing Her Lying in Her Cradle by William Aspenwall Bradley
  19. Alice by Herbert Bashford
  20. Songs for Fragoletta by Richard Le Gallienne
  21. Baby May by William Cox Bennett
  22. Rhyme of One by Frederick Locker-Lampson
  1. Bartholomew by Norman Gale
  2. "Baby Sleeps" by Samuel Hinds
  3. Baby Bell by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
  4. The Mother's Prayer by Dora Sigerson Shorter
  5. The Storm-Child by May Byron
  6. The King of the Cradle by Joseph Ashby-Sterry
  7. The Firstborn by John Arthur Goodchild
  8. Our Wee White Rose by Gerald Massey
  9. Wail of the Divorced by Mary E. Tucker
  10. Don't Wake the Baby by Anonymous
  11. Baby's Dimples by John B. Tabb
  12. The Butterfly by Lydia Howard Sigourney
  13. A Secret by John Charles McNeill
  14. The New Arrival by George W. Cable
  15. Baby's Breakfast by Emilie Poulsson
  16. The First Tooth by William Brighty Rands
  17. Baby-Land by George Cooper
  18. Hush, Little Baby by Anonymous
  19. A Baby's Hands by Margaret E. Sangster
  20. A Little Face by Kate Slaughter McKinney
  21. Six Weeks Old by Christopher Morley
  22. The High Chair by Christopher Morley
  23. Baby Understands by Ed Blair
  24. The Baby by Hugh Miller

New Baby Poems

Adapting to the novelty of having a new baby in the home

  1. "All On Account of The Baby"

    by Amos Russel Wells

    An ache in the back and an ache in the arms,
    All on account of the baby.
    A fear and a fright and a thousand alarms,
    All on account of the baby.
    And bottles and rattles and whistles and rings,
    From cellar to attic a clutter of things,
    From morning to night and to morning again
    More fuss and more fume than an army of men.
    And a head that is stupid for lack of its sleep,
    And a heart where a flood of anxieties leap—
    All on account of the baby.

    A joy in the heart and a light in the eyes,
    All on account of the baby.
    A growing content and a growing surprise
    All on account of the baby.
    And patience that conquers a myriad frets,
    And a sunshiny song that another begets,
    And pureness of soul as a baby is pure,
    And sureness of faith as the children are sure,
    And a glory of love between husband and wife,
    And a saner and happier outlook on life,
    All on account of the baby.

  2. Just a Little Bit of Baby

    by Amos Russel Wells

    Just a little bit of baby,
    Twenty pounds and nothing more.—
    See him floor his giant daddy,
    Weight two hundred, six feet four.

    Just a little bit of baby;
    Any beauty? not a trace,—
    See him stealing all the roses
    From his lovely mother's face.

    Just a little bit of baby;
    Ignorant as he can be.—
    See him puzzle all the sages
    Of his learned family.

    Just a little bit of baby;
    Walking? no; nor crawling; even;—
    See him lead a dozen grown-ups
    To the very gate of heaven!

  3. "Only a Baby Small"

    by Matthias Barr

    Only a baby small,
    Dropped from the skies,
    Only a laughing face,
    Two sunny eyes;
    Only two cherry lips,
    One chubby nose;
    Only two little hands,
    Ten little toes.

    Only a golden head,
    Curly and soft;
    Only a tongue that wags
    Loudly and oft;
    Only a little brain,
    Empty of thought;
    Only a little heart,
    Troubled with naught.

    Only a tender flower
    Sent us to rear;
    Only a life to love
    While we are here;
    Only a baby small,
    Never at rest;
    Small, but how dear to us,
    God knoweth best.

  4. Only

    by Harriet Prescott Spofford

    Something to live for came to the place,
    Something to die for maybe,
    Something to give even sorrow a grace,
    And yet it was only a baby!

    Cooing, and laughter, and gurgles, and cries,
    Dimples for tenderest kisses,
    Chaos of hopes, and of raptures, and sighs,
    Chaos of fears and of blisses.

    Last year, like all years, the rose and the thorn;
    This year a wilderness maybe;
    But heaven stooped under the roof on the morn
    That it brought them only a baby.

  5. Infant Joy

    by William Blake

    "I have no name;
    I am but two days old."
    What shall I call thee?
    "I happy am,
    Joy is my name."
    Sweet joy befall thee!

    Pretty joy!
    Sweet joy, but two days old.
    Sweet joy I call thee;
    Thou dost smile,
    I sing the while;
    Sweet joy befall thee!

  6. Baby

    by George Macdonald

    Where did you come from, baby dear?
    Out of the everywhere into the here.

    Where did you get those eyes so blue?
    Out of the sky as I came through.

    What makes the light in them sparkle and spin?
    Some of the starry spikes left in.

    Where did you get that little tear?
    I found it waiting when I got here.

    What makes your forehead so smooth and high?
    A soft hand stroked it as I went by.

    What makes your cheek like a warm white rose?
    I saw something better than any one knows.

    Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss?
    Three angels gave me at once a kiss.

    Where did you get this pearly ear?
    God spoke, and it came out to hear.

    Where did you get those arms and hands?
    Love made itself into bonds and bands.br />

    Feet, where did you come, you darling things?
    From the same box as the cherubs' wings.

    How did they all just come to be you?
    God thought about me, and so I grew.

    But how did you come to us, you dear?
    God thought about you, and so I am here.

  7. Choosing a Name

    by Mary Lamb

    I have got a new-born sister:
    I was nigh the first that kissed her.
    When the nursing-woman brought her
    To papa, his infant daughter,
    How papa's dear eyes did glisten!
    She will shortly be to christen;
    And papa has made the offer,
    I shall have the naming of her.

    Now I wonder what would please her,—
    Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa?
    Ann and Mary, they're too common;
    Joan's too formal for a woman;
    Jane's a prettier name beside;
    But we had a Jane that died.
    They would say, if 'twas Rebecca,
    That she was a little Quaker.
    Edith's pretty, but that looks
    Better in old English books;
    Ellen's left off long ago;
    Blanche is out of fashion now.
    None that I have named as yet
    Is so good as Margaret.
    Emily is neat and fine;
    What do you think of Caroline?
    How I'm puzzled and perplexed
    What to choose or think of next!
    I am in a little fever
    Lest the name that I should give her
    Should disgrace her or defame her;—
    I will leave papa to name her.

  8. Weighing the Baby

    by Ethel Lynn Beers

    "How many pounds does the baby weigh—
    Baby who came but a month ago?
    How many pounds from the crowning curl
    To the rosy point of the restless toe?"

    Grandfather ties the 'kerchief knot,
    Tenderly guides the swinging weight,
    And carefully over his glasses peers
    To read the record, "only eight."

    Softly the echo goes around:
    The father laughs at the tiny girl;
    The fair young mother sings the words,
    While grandmother smooths the golden curl.

    And stooping above the precious thing,
    Nestles a kiss within a prayer,
    Murmuring softly "Little one,
    Grandfather did not weigh you fair."

    Nobody weighed the baby's smile,
    Or the love that came with the helpless one;
    Nobody weighed the threads of care,
    From which a woman's life is spun.

    No index tells the mighty worth
    Of a little baby's quiet breath—
    A soft, unceasing metronome,
    Patient and faithful until death.

    Nobody weighed the baby's soul,
    For here on earth no weights there be
    That could avail; God only knows
    Its value in eternity.

    Only eight pounds to hold a soul
    That seeks no angel's silver wing,
    But shrines it in this human guise,
    Within so frail and small a thing!

    Oh, mother! laugh your merry note,
    Be gay and glad, but don't forget
    From baby's eyes looks out a soul
    That claims a home in Eden yet.

  9. May I Hold the Baby?

    by Amos Russel Wells

    A Humble Request of the Modern Mamma

    Dear Modern Mamma, if you please,
    I'd like to take the baby.
    I'll hold my breath, nor cough, nor sneeze,
    If I may hold the baby,
    As one who fully understands
    The law of germs and its commands
    I've disinfected both my hands—
    And may I hold the baby?

    I will not kiss the precious thing,
    If I may hold the baby;
    And only Tennyson I'll sing,
    If I may hold the baby.
    I will not rock it, cradlewise,
    I will not torn it if it cries,
    I will not twist my mouth or eyes,
    If I may hold the baby.

    By Pestalozzl I will walk,
    If I may hold the baby.
    I'll not indulge in baby talk,
    If I may hold the baby.
    With placid brow and soul serene
    I'll talk of Greek and Plelocene,
    And it will gather all I mean.
    Please may I hold the baby?

    I'll give it nothing good to eat,
    If I may hold the baby;
    Especially no horrid sweet,—
    And may I hold the baby?
    I loathe, abhor, the ancient use
    Of Mrs. Winslow's soothing juice.
    I'll banish her, with Mother Goose,
    If I may hold the baby.

  10. The Babie

    by Elizabeth Akers

    Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes,
    Nae stockin' on her feet;
    Her supple ankles white as snaw,
    Or early blossoms sweet.

    Her simple dress o' sprinkled pink,
    Her double, dimplit chin,
    Her puckered lips, an' baumy mou',
    With na ane tooth within.

    Her een sae like her mither's een,
    Twa gentle, liquid things;
    Her face is like an angel's face,—
    We're glad she has nae wings.

    She is the buddin' of our luve,
    A giftie God gied us:
    We maun na luve the gift owre weel,
    'Twad be nae blessin' thus.

    We still maun luve the Giver mair,
    An' see Him in the given;
    An' sae she'll lead us up to Him,
    Our babie straight frae Heaven.

  11. Poems about Babies

    the beautiful features of a newborn baby

  12. Little Hands

    by Laurence Binyon

    Soft little hands that stray and clutch,
    Like fern fronds curl and uncurl bold,
    While baby faces lie in such
    Close sleep as flowers at night that fold,
    What is it you would, clasp and hold,
    Wandering outstretched with wilful touch?
    O fingers small of shell-tipped rose,
    How should you know you hold so much?
    Two full hearts beating you inclose,
    Hopes, fears, prayers, longings, joys and woes,—
    All yours to hold, O little hands!
    More, more than wisdom understands
    And love, love only knows.

  13. Little Feet

    by Elizabeth Akers

    Two little feet, so small that both may nestle
    In one caressing hand,—
    Two tender feet upon the untried border
    Of life's mysterious land.

    Dimpled, and soft, and pink as peach-tree blossoms,
    In April's fragrant days,
    How can they walk among the briery tangles,
    Edging the world's rough ways?

    These rose-white feet, along the doubtful future,
    Must bear a mother's load;
    Alas! since Woman has the heavier burden,
    And walks the harder road.

    Love, for a while, will make the path before them
    All dainty, smooth, and fair,—
    Will cull away the brambles, letting only
    The roses blossom there.

    But when the mother's watchful eyes are shrouded
    Away from sight of men,
    And these dear feet are left without her guiding,
    Who shall direct them then?

    How will they be allured, betrayed, deluded,
    Poor little untaught feet!
    Into what dreary mazes will they wander,
    What dangers will they meet?

    Will they go stumbling blindly in the darkness
    Of Sorrow's tearful shades?
    Or find the upland slopes of Peace and Beauty,
    Whose sunlight never fades?

    Will they go toiling up Ambition's summit,
    The common world above?
    Or in some nameless vale, securely sheltered,
    Walk side by side with Love?

    Some feet there be which walk Life's track unwounded,
    Which find but pleasant ways:
    Some hearts there be to which this life is only
    A round of happy days.

    But these are few. Far more there are who wander
    Without a hope or friend,—
    Who find their journey full of pains and losses,
    And long to reach the end.

    How shall it be with her, the tender stranger,
    Fair-faced and gentle-eyed,
    Before whose unstained feet the world's rude highway
    Stretches so fair and wide?

    Ah! who may read the future? For our darling
    We crave all blessings sweet,
    And pray that He who feeds the crying ravens
    Will guide the baby's feet.

  14. The Little Foot

    by Hannah Flagg Gould

    My boy, as gently on my breast,
    From infant sport, thou sink'st to rest;
    And on my hand I feel thee put,
    In playful dreams, thy little foot,
    The thrilling touch sets every string
    Of my full heart to quivering;
    For, ah! I think, what chart can show
    The ways through which this foot may go?

    Its print will be, in childhood's hours,
    Traced in the garden, round the flowers;
    But youth will bid it leap the rills,
    Bathe in the dew on distant hills,
    Roam o'er the vales, and venture out
    When riper years would pause and doubt,
    Nor brave the pass, nor try the brink
    Where youth's unguarded foot may sink.

    But what, when manhood tints thy cheek,
    Will be the ways this foot will seek?
    Is it to lightly pace the deck,
    Helpless, to slip from off the wreck?
    Or wander o'er a foreign shore,
    Returning to thy home no more,
    Until the bosom now thy pillow,
    Is low and cold beneath the willow?

    Or, is it for the battle-plain,
    Beside the slayer and the slain?
    Will there its final step be taken?
    There, sleep thine eye no more to waken?
    Is it to glory or to shame—
    To sully, or to gild thy name?
    Is it to happiness or wo
    This little foot is made to go?

    But wheresoe'er its lines may fall,
    Whether in cottage or in hall;
    O, may it ever shun the ground
    Where'er his foot was never found,
    Who, on his path of life, hath shed
    A living light, that all may tread
    Upon his earthly steps; and none
    E'er dash the foot against a stone!

    Yet, if thy way is marked by fate,
    As, guilty, dark and desolate;
    If thou must float, by vice and crime,
    A wreck, upon the stream of time!
    Oh! rather than behold that day,
    I'd know this foot, in lightsome play,
    Would bound, with guiltless, infant glee,
    Upon the sod that sheltered me!

  15. Etude Realiste

    by Algernon Charles Swinburne

    I

    A baby's feet, like seashells pink,
    Might tempt, should heaven see meet,
    An angel's lips to kiss, we think,
    A baby's feet.

    Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat
    They stretch and spread and wink
    Their ten soft buds that part and meet.

    No flower-bells that expand and shrink
    Gleam half so heavenly sweet,
    As shine on life's untrodden brink
    A baby's feet.

    II

    A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled,
    Where yet no leaf expands,
    Ope if you touch, though close upcurled,—
    A baby's hands.

    Then, even as warriors grip their brands
    When battle's bolt is hurled,
    They close, clenched hard like tightening bands.

    No rosebuds yet by dawn impearled
    Match, even in loveliest lands,
    The sweetest flowers in all the world,—
    A baby's hands.

    III

    A baby's eyes, ere speech begin,
    Ere lips learn words or sighs,
    Bless all things bright enough to win
    A baby's eyes.

    Love, while the sweet thing laughs and lies,
    And sleep flows out and in,
    Sees perfect in them Paradise!

    Their glance might cast out pain and sin,
    Their speech make dumb the wise,
    By mute glad godhead felt within
    A baby's eyes.

  16. Baby Girl Poems

  17. To a New-Born Baby Girl

    by Grace Hazard Conkling

    And did thy sapphire shallop slip
    Its moorings suddenly, to dip
    Adown the clear, ethereal sea
    From star to star, all silently?
    What tenderness of archangels
    In silver, thrilling syllables
    Pursued thee, or what dulcet hymn
    Low-chanted by the cherubim?
    And thou departing must have heard
    The holy Mary's farewell word,
    Who with deep eyes and wistful smile
    Remembered Earth a little while.

    Now from the coasts of morning pale
    Comes safe to port thy tiny sail.
    Now have we seen by early sun,
    Thy miracle of life begun.
    All breathing and aware thou art,
    With beauty templed in thy heart
    To let thee recognize the thrill
    Of wings along far azure hill,
    And hear within the hollow sky
    Thy friends the angels rushing by.
    These shall recall that thou hast known
    Their distant country as thine own,
    To spare thee word of vales and streams,
    And publish heaven through thy dreams.
    The human accents of the breeze
    Through swaying star-acquainted trees Shall seem a voice heard earlier,
    Her voice, the adoring sigh of her,
    When thou amid rosy cherub-play
    Didst hear her call thee, far away, And dream in very Paradise
    The worship of thy mother's eyes.

  18. To a New-Born Child

    by Cosmo Monkhouse

    Small traveler from an unseen shore,
    By mortal eye ne'er seen before,
    To you, good-morrow.
    You are as fair a little dame
    As ever from a glad world came
    To one of sorrow.

    We smile above you, but you fret;
    We call you gentle names, and yet
    Your cries redouble.
    'Tis hard for little babes to prize
    The tender love that underlies
    A life of trouble.

    And have you come from Heaven to earth?
    That were a road of little mirth,
    A doleful travel.
    "Why did I come?" you seem to cry,
    But that's a riddle you and I
    Can scarce unravel.

    Perhaps you really wished to come,
    But now you are so far from home
    Repent the trial.
    What! did you leave celestial bliss
    To bless us with a daughter's kiss?
    What self-denial!

    Have patience for a little space,
    You might have come to a worse place,
    Fair Angel-rover.
    No wonder now you would have stayed,
    But hush your cries, my little maid,
    The journey's over.

    For, utter stranger as you are,
    There yet are many hearts ajar
    For your arriving,
    And trusty friends and lovers true
    Are waiting, ready-made for you,
    Without your striving.

    The earth is full of lovely things,
    And if at first you miss your wings,
    You'll soon forget them;
    And others, of a rarer kind
    Will grow upon your tender mind—
    If you will let them—

    Until you find that your exchange
    Of Heaven for earth expands your range
    E'en as a flier,
    And that your mother, you and I,
    If we do what we should, may fly
    Than Angels higher.

  19. My Little Girl's Hand

    by Anonymous

    By every bruise upon this little hand
    I heal with balm and kiss away the grief,
    Better the Father's love I understand,
    Better my own torn spirit finds relief.

    By all those hours the little hand grew white
    And ah so sadly frail upon the bed,
    My darkened soul drew forth into the light,
    My wandering feet to heaven's gates were led.

    Yea, by the very times this little hand
    Is snatched in wilfulness away from mine,
    Better my own revolts I understand,
    And lay, O God! more trustful hands in Thine.

  20. To Little Renee on First Seeing Her Lying in Her Cradle

    by William Aspenwall Bradley

    Who is she here that now I see,
    This dainty new divinity,
    Love's sister, Venus' child? She shows
    Her hues, white lily and pink rose,
    And in her laughing eyes the snares
    That hearts entangle unawares.
    Ah, woe to men if Love should yield
    His arrows to this girl to wield
    Even in play, for she would give
    Sore wounds that none might take and live.
    Yet no such wanton strain is hers,
    Nor Leda's child and Jupiter's
    Is she, though swans no softer are
    Than whom she fairer is by far.
    For she was born beside the rill
    That gushes from Parnassus' hill,
    And by the bright Pierian spring
    She shall receive an offering
    From every youth who pipes a strain
    Beside his flocks upon the plain.
    But I, the first, this very day,
    Will tune for her my humble lay,
    Invoking this new Muse to render
    My oaten reed more sweet and tender,
    Within its vibrant hollows wake
    Such dulcet voices for her sake
    As, curved hand at straining ear,
    I long have stood and sought to hear
    Borne with the warm midsummer breeze
    With scent of hay and hum of bees
    Faintly from far-off Sicily....

    Ah, well I know that not for us
    Are Virgil and Theocritus,
    And that the golden age is past
    Whereof they sang, and thou, the last,
    Sweet Spenser, of their god-like line,
    Soar far too swift for verse of mine
    One strain to compass of your song.
    Yet there are poets that prolong
    Of your rare voice the ravishment
    In silver cadences; content
    Were I if I could but rehearse
    One stave of Wither's starry verse,
    Weave such wrought richness as recalls
    Britannia's lovely Pastorals,
    Or in some garden-spot suspire
    One breath of Marvell's magic fire
    When in the green and leafy shade
    He sees dissolving all that's made.
    Ah, little Muse still far too high
    On weak, clipped wings my wishes fly.
    Transform them then and make them doves,
    Soft-moaning birds that Venus loves,
    That they may circle ever low
    Above the abode where you shall grow
    Into your gracious womanhood.
    And you shall feed the gentle brood
    From out your hand—content they'll be
    Only to coo their songs to thee.

  21. Alice

    by Herbert Bashford

    Of deepest blue of summer skies
    Is wrought the heaven of her eyes.

    Of that fine gold the autumns wear
    Is wrought the glory of her hair.

    Of rose leaves fashioned in the south
    Is shaped the marvel of her mouth.

    And from the honeyed lips of bliss
    Is drawn the sweetness of her kiss,

    'Mid twilight thrushes that rejoice
    Is found the cadence of her voice,

    Of winds that wave the western fir
    Is made the velvet touch of her.

    Of all earth's songs God took the half
    To make the ripple of her laugh.

    I hear you ask, "Pray who is she?"—
    This maid that is so dear to me.

    "A reigning queen in Fashion's whirl?"
    Nay, nay! She is my baby girl.

  22. Songs for Fragoletta

    by Richard Le Gallienne

    I

    Fragoletta, blessed one!
    What think you of the light of the sun?
    Do you think the dark was best,
    Lying snug in mother's breast?
    Ah! I knew that sweetness, too,
    Fragoletta, before you!
    But, Fragoletta, now you're born,
    You must learn to love the morn,
    Love the lovely working light,
    Love the miracle of sight,
    Love the thousand things to do—
    Little girl, I envy you!—
    Love the thousand things to see,
    Love your mother, and—love me!
    And some night, Fragoletta, soon,
    I'll take you out to see the moon;
    And for the first time, child of ours,
    You shall—think of it!—look on flowers,
    And smell them, too, if you are good,
    And hear the green leaves in the wood
    Talking, talking, all together
    In the happy windy weather;
    And if the journey's not too far
    For little limbs so lately made,
    Limb upon limb like petals laid,
    We'll go and picnic in a star.

    II

    Blue eyes, looking up at me,
    I wonder what you really see,
    Lying in your cradle there,
    Fragrant as a branch of myrrh?
    Helpless little hands and feet,
    O so helpless! O so sweet!
    Tiny tongue that cannot talk,
    Tiny feet that cannot walk,
    Nothing of you that can do
    Aught, except those eyes of blue.
    How they open, how they close!—
    Eyelids of the baby-rose.
    Open and shut—so blue, so wise,
    Baby-eyelids, baby-eyes.

    III

    That, Fragoletta, is the rain
    Beating upon the window-pane;
    But lo! The golden sun appears,
    To kiss away the window's tears.
    That, Fragoletta, is the wind,
    That rattles so the window-blind;
    And yonder shining thing's a star,
    Blue eyes—you seem ten times as far.
    That, Fragoletta, is a bird
    That speaks, yet never says a word;
    Upon a cherry tree it sings,
    Simple as all mysterious things;
    Its little life to peck and pipe,
    As long as cherries ripe and ripe,
    And minister unto the need
    Of baby-birds that feed and feed.
    This, Fragoletta, is a flower,
    Open and fragrant for an hour,
    A flower, a transitory thing,
    Each petal fleeting as a wing,
    All a May morning blows and blows,
    And then for everlasting goes.

    IV

    Blue eyes, against the whiteness pressed
    Of little mother's hallowed breast,
    The while your trembling lips are fed,
    Look up at mother's bended head,
    All benediction over you—
    O blue eyes looking into blue!
    Fragoletta is so small,
    We wonder that she lives at all—
    Tiny alabaster girl,
    Hardly bigger than a pearl;
    That is why we take such care,
    Lest some one run away with her.

  23. Baby May

    by William Cox Bennett

    Cheeks as soft as July peaches,
    Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches
    Poppies paleness—round large eyes
    Ever great with new surprise,
    Minutes filled with shadeless gladness,
    Minutes just as brimmed with sadness,
    Happy smiles and wailing cries,
    Crows and laughs and tearful eyes,
    Lights and shadows swifter born
    Than on wind-swept Autumn corn,
    Ever some new tiny notion
    Making every limb all motion—
    Catching up of legs and arms,
    Throwings back and small alarms,
    Clutching fingers—straightening jerks,
    Twining feet whose each toe works,
    Kickings up and straining risings,
    Mother's ever new surprisings,
    Hands all wants and looks all wonder
    At all things the heavens under,
    Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings
    That have more of love than lovings,
    Mischiefs done with such a winning
    Archness, that we prize such sinning,
    Breakings dire of plates and glasses,
    Graspings small at all that passes,
    Pullings off of all that's able
    To be caught from tray or table;
    Silences—small meditations,
    Deep as thoughts of cares for nations,
    Breaking into wisest speeches
    In a tongue that nothing teaches,
    All the thoughts of whose possessing
    Must be wooed to light by guessing;
    Slumbers—such sweet angel-seemings,
    That we'd ever have such dreamings,
    Till from sleep we see thee breaking,
    And we'd always have thee waking;
    Wealth for which we know no measure,
    Pleasure high above all pleasure,
    Gladness brimming over gladness,
    Joy in care—delight in sadness,
    Loveliness beyond completeness,
    Sweetness distancing all sweetness,
    Beauty all that beauty may be—
    That's May Bennett, that's my baby.

  24. Baby Boy Poems

  25. Rhyme of One

    by Frederick Locker-Lampson

    You sleep upon your mother's breast,
    Your race begun,
    A welcome, long a wished-for Guest,
    Whose age is One.

    A Baby-Boy, you wonder why
    You cannot run;
    You try to talk—how hard you try!—
    You're only One.

    Ere long you won't be such a dunce:
    You'll eat your bun,
    And fly your kite, like folk who once
    Were only One.

    You'll rhyme and woo, and fight and joke,
    Perhaps you'll pun!
    Such feats are never done by folk
    Before they're One.

    Some day, too, you may have your joy,
    And envy none;
    Yes, you, yourself, may own a Boy,
    Who isn't One.

    He'll dance, and laugh, and crow; he'll do
    As you have done:
    (You crown a happy home, though you
    Are only One.)

    But when he's grown shall you be here
    To share his fun,
    And talk of times when he (the Dear!)
    Was hardly One?

    Dear Child, 'tis your poor lot to be
    My little Son;
    I'm glad, though I am old, you see,—
    While you are One.

  26. Bartholomew

    by Norman Gale

    Bartholomew is very sweet,
    From sandy hair to rosy feet.

    Bartholomew is six months old,
    And dearer far than pearls or gold.

    Bartholomew has deep blue eyes,
    Round pieces dropped from out the skies.

    Bartholomew is hugged and kissed:
    He loves a flower in either fist.

    Bartholomew's my saucy son:
    No mother has a sweeter one!

  27. Baby Death Poems

  28. "Baby Sleeps"

    by Samuel Hinds

    She is not dead, but sleepeth.—Luke viii. 52.

    The baby wept;
    The mother took it from the nurse's arms,
    And hushed its fears, and soothed its vain alarms,
    And baby slept.

    Again it weeps,
    And God doth take it from the mother's arms,
    From present griefs, and future unknown harms,
    And baby sleeps.

  29. Baby Bell

    by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

    I

    Have you not heard the poets tell
    How came the dainty Baby Bell
    Into this world of ours?
    The gates of heaven were left ajar:
    With folded hands and dreamy eyes,
    Wandering out of Paradise,
    She saw this planet, like a star,
    Hung in the glistening depths of even—
    Its bridges, running to and fro,
    O'er which the white-winged Angels go,
    Bearing the holy Dead to heaven.
    She touched a bridge of flowers—those feet,
    So light they did not bend the bells
    Of the celestial asphodels,
    They fell like dew upon the flowers:
    Then all the air grew strangely sweet.
    And thus came dainty Baby Bell
    Into this world of ours.

    II

    She came and brought delicious May;
    The swallows built beneath the eaves;
    Like sunlight, in and out the leaves
    The robins went, the livelong day;
    The lily swung its noiseless bell;
    And on the porch the slender vine
    Held out its cups of fairy wine.
    How tenderly the twilights fell!
    Oh, earth was full of singing-birds
    And opening springtide flowers,
    When the dainty Baby Bell
    Came to this world of ours.

    III

    O Baby, dainty Baby Bell,
    How fair she grew from day to day!
    What woman-nature filled her eyes,
    What poetry within them lay—
    Those deep and tender twilight eyes,
    So full of meaning, pure and bright
    As if she yet stood in the light
    Of those oped gates of Paradise.
    And so we loved her more and more:
    Ah, never in our hearts before
    Was love so lovely born:
    We felt we had a link between
    This real world and that unseen—
    The land beyond the morn;
    And for the love of those dear eyes,
    For love of her whom God led forth,
    (The mother's being ceased on earth
    When Baby came from Paradise,)—
    For love of Him who smote our lives,
    And woke the chords of joy and pain,
    We said, Dear Christ!—our hearts bowed down
    Like violets after rain.

    IV

    And now the orchards, which were white
    And pink with blossoms when she came,
    Were rich in autumn's mellow prime;
    The clustered apples burnt like flame,
    The folded chestnut burst its shell,
    The grapes hung purpling, range on range;
    And time wrought just as rich a change
    In little Baby Bell.
    Her lissome form more perfect grew,
    And in her features we could trace,
    In softened curves, her mother's face.
    Her angel-nature ripened too:
    We thought her lovely when she came,
    But she was holy, saintly now...
    Around her pale angelic brow
    We saw a slender ring of flame.

    V

    God's hand had taken away the seal
    That held the portals of her speech;
    And oft she said a few strange words
    Whose meaning lay beyond our reach.
    She never was a child to us,
    We never held her being's key;
    We could not teach her holy things
    Who was Christ's self in purity.

    VI

    It came upon us by degrees,
    We saw its shadow ere it fell—
    The knowledge that our God had sent
    His messenger for Baby Bell.
    We shuddered with unlanguaged pain,
    And all our hopes were changed to fears,
    And all our thoughts ran into tears
    Like sunshine into rain.
    We cried aloud in our belief,
    "Oh, smite us gently, gently, God!
    Teach us to bend and kiss the rod,
    And perfect grow through grief."
    Ah! how we loved her, God can tell;
    Her heart was folded deep in ours.
    Our hearts are broken, Baby Bell!

    VII

    At last he came, the messenger,
    The messenger from unseen lands:
    And what did dainty Baby Bell?
    She only crossed her little hands,
    She only looked more meek and fair!
    We parted back her silken hair,
    We wove the roses round her brow—
    White buds, the summer's drifted snow—
    Wrapped her from head to foot in flowers...
    And thus went dainty Baby Bell
    Out of this world of ours.

  30. The Mother's Prayer

    by Dora Sigerson Shorter

    The good Lord gave, the Lord has taken from me,
    Blessed be His name, His holy will be done.
    The mourners all have gone, all save I, his mother,
    The little grave lies lonely in the sun.

    Nay! I would not follow, though they did beseech me,
    For the angels come now waiting for my dead.
    Heaven's door is open, so my whispers soar there,
    While the gentle angels lift him from his bed.

    Oh Lord, when Thou gavest he was weak and helpless,
    Could not rise nor wander from my shielding arm;
    Lovely is he now and strong with four sweet summers,
    Laughing, running, tumbling, hard to keep from harm.

    If some tender mother, whose babe on earth is living,
    Takes his little hand to guide his stranger feet
    'Mid the countless hosts that cross the floor of heaven,
    Thou wilt not reprove her for Thy pity sweet.

    If upon her breast she holds his baby beauty,
    All his golden hair will fall about her hand,
    Laughing let her fingers pull it into ringlets—
    Long and lovely ringlets. She will understand.

    Wilful are his ways and full of merry mischief;
    If he prove unruly, lay the blame on me.
    Never did I chide him for his noise or riot,
    Smiled upon his folly, glad his joy to see.

    Each eve shall I come beside his bed so lowly;
    "Hush-a-by, my baby," softly shall I sing,
    So, if he be frightened, full of sleep and anger,
    The song he loved shall reach him and sure comfort bring.

    Lord, if in my praying, Thou shouldst hear me weeping,
    Ever was I wayward, always full of tears,
    Take no heed of this grief. Sweet the gift Thou gavest
    All the cherished treasure of those golden years.

    Do not, therefore, hold me to Thy will ungrateful:
    Soon I shall stand upright, smiling, strong, and brave,
    With a son in heaven the sad earth forgetting,
    But 'tis lonely yet, Lord, by the little grave.
    Oh, 'tis lonely, lonely, by the little grave!

  31. Other

  32. The Storm-Child

    by May Byron

    My child came to me with the equinox,
    The wild wind blew him to my swinging door,
    With flakes of tawny foam from off the shore,
    And shivering spindrift whirled across the rocks.
    Flung down the sky, the wheeling swallow-flocks
    Cried him a greeting, and the lordly woods,
    Waving lean arms of welcome one by one,
    Cast down their russet cloaks and golden hoods,
    And bid their dancing leaflets trip and run
    Before the tender feet of this my son.

    Therefore the sea's swift fire is in his veins,
    And in his heart the glory of the sea;
    Therefore the storm-wind shall his comrade be,
    That strips the hills and sweeps the cowering plains.
    October, shot with flashing rays and rains,
    Inhabits all his pulses; he shall know
    The stress and splendor of the roaring gales,
    The creaking boughs shall croon him fairy tales,
    And the sea's kisses set his blood aglow,
    While in his ears the eternal bugles blow.

  33. The King of the Cradle

    by Joseph Ashby-Sterry

    Draw back the cradle curtains, Kate,
    While watch and ward you're keeping,
    Let's see the monarch in his state,
    And view him while he's sleeping.
    He smiles and clasps his tiny hand,
    With sunbeams o'er him gleaming,—
    A world of baby fairyland
    He visits while he's dreaming.

    Monarch of pearly powder-puff,
    Asleep in nest so cosy,
    Shielded from breath of breezes rough
    By curtains warm and rosy:
    He slumbers soundly in his cell,
    As weak as one decrepid,
    Though King of Coral, Lord of Bell,
    And Knight of Bath that's tepid.

    Ah, lucky tyrant! Happy lot!
    Fair watchers without number,
    Who sweetly sing beside his cot,
    And hush him off to slumber;
    White hands in wait to smooth so neat
    His pillow when its rumpled—
    A couch of rose leaves soft and sweet,
    Not one of which is crumpled!

    Will yonder dainty dimpled hand—
    Size, nothing and a quarter—
    E'er grasp a saber, lead a band
    To glory and to slaughter?
    Or, may I ask, will those blue eyes—
    In baby patois, "peepers"—
    E'er in the House of Commons rise,
    And try to catch the Speaker's?

    Will that smooth brow o'er Hansard frown,
    Confused by lore statistic?
    Or will those lips e'er stir the town
    From pulpit ritualistic?
    Will e'er that tiny Sybarite
    Become an author noted?
    That little brain the world's delight,
    Its works by all men quoted?

    Though rosy, dimpled, plump, and round
    Though fragile, soft, and tender,
    Sometimes, alas! it may be found
    The thread of life is slender!
    A little shoe, a little glove—
    Affection never waning—
    The shattered idol of our love
    Is all that is remaining!

    Then does one chance, in fancy, hear, Small feet in childish patter,
    Tread soft as they a grave draw near,
    And voices hush their chatter;
    'Tis small and new; they pause in fear,
    Beneath the gray church tower,
    To consecrate it with a tear,
    And deck it with a flower.

    Who can predict the future, Kate—
    Your fondest aspiration!
    Who knows the solemn laws of fate,
    That govern all creation?
    Who knows what lot awaits your boy—
    Of happiness or sorrow?
    Sufficient for to-day is joy,
    Leave tears, Sweet, for to-morrow!

  34. The Firstborn

    by John Arthur Goodchild

    So fair, so dear, so warm upon my bosom,
    And in my hands the little rosy feet.
    Sleep on, my little bird, my lamb, my blossom;
    Sleep on, sleep on, my sweet.

    What is it God hath given me to cherish,
    This living, moving wonder which is mine—
    Mine only? Leave it with me or I perish,
    Dear Lord of love divine.

    Dear Lord, 'tis wonderful beyond all wonder,
    This tender miracle vouchsafed to me,
    One with myself, yet just so far asunder
    That I myself may see.

    Flesh of my flesh, and yet so subtly linking
    New selfs with old, all things that I have been
    With present joys beyond my former thinking
    And future things unseen.

    There life began, and here it links with heaven,
    The golden chain of years scarce dipped adown
    From birth, ere once again a hold is given
    And nearer to God's Throne.

    Seen, held in arms and clasped around so tightly,—
    My love, my bird, I will not let thee go.
    Yet soon the little rosy feet must lightly
    Go pattering to and fro.

    Mine, Lord, all mine Thy gift and loving token.
    Mine—yes or no, unseen its soul divine?
    Mine by the chain of love with links unbroken,
    Dear Saviour, Thine and mine.

  35. Our Wee White Rose

    by Gerald Massey

    All in our marriage garden
    Grew, smiling up to God,
    A bonnier flower than ever
    Sucked the green warmth of the sod;
    O, beautiful unfathomably
    Its little life unfurled;
    And crown of all things was our wee
    White Rose of all the world.

    From out a balmy bosom
    Our bud of beauty grew;
    It fed on smiles for sunshine,
    On tears for daintier dew:
    Aye nestling warm and tenderly,
    Our leaves of love were curled
    So close and close about our wee
    White Rose of all the world.

    With mystical faint fragrance
    Our house of life she filled;
    Revealed each hour some fairy tower
    Where winged hopes might build!
    We saw—though none like us might see—
    Such precious promise pearled
    Upon the petals of our wee
    White Rose of all the world.

    But evermore the halo
    Of angel-light increased,
    Like the mystery of moonlight
    That folds some fairy feast.
    Snow-white, snow-soft, snow-silently
    Our darling bud uncurled,
    And dropped in the grave—God's lap—our wee
    White Rose of all the world.

    Our Rose was but in blossom,
    Our life was but in spring,
    When down the solemn midnight
    We heard the spirits sing,
    "Another bud of infancy
    With holy dews impearled!"
    And in their hands they bore our wee
    White Rose of all the world.

    You scarce could think so small a thing
    Could leave a loss so large;
    Her little light such shadow fling
    From dawn to sunset's marge.
    In other springs our life may be
    In bannered bloom unfurled,
    But never, never match our wee
    White Rose of all the world.

  36. Wail of the Divorced

    by Mary E. Tucker

    How can I give thee up, my child, my dearest, earliest born,
    While fond hopes are 'round thee clustered, like bright clouds o'er morning's dawn?
    No, I will not leave thee, darling; thou at least shall never say
    That no tender hand did guide thee through the cares of childhood's day.

    My child! when first thy mother heard thy feeble, first-born wail,
    Love's tide came rushing through the heart, I thought encased in mail.
    For the few years of my young life had been scenes of mirth and woe,
    For I grasped the pleasures, darling, grasped them, ere I let them go!

    E'en the brightest days of summer have their sunshine and their showers;
    And the piercing thorn will wound us, as we pluck the fairest flowers;
    But the perfume of the flowers makes us glory in the pain,
    And exulting in the sunshine, we forget the chilling rain.

    I know 'twould break my aching heart to leave thee, precious one!
    How can they brand me with a curse — what have I ever done?
    I know that I have never sent a sister down to shame,
    By casting blots of foulest sin upon a snow-white name.

    Have charity, have charity, my child, for every sin —
    For the sore temptation, darling, may all-powerful have been;
    And always lend a helping hand to those who chance to fall;
    Forgive, forget, be ready to obey your Saviour's call.

    Learn, learn, my child, and ne'er forget, learn while thou art still young,
    That he will have the truest friends, who bridleth his tongue.
    Speak well of all, if aught you know of evil, or of ill;
    Deep in thy bosom let it rest, and keep the scandal still.

    My baby, should you ever choose a partner for this life,
    Oh, darling, ever strive to be a fond, devoted wife;
    And never let thy husband's name be spoken but in praise;
    For some will, if you let them, sadly misconstrue his ways.

    Seek not happiness in pleasure, for the dregs of every cup
    Are so bitter, darling, bitter, as we quaff the latest sup!
    And never seek, my child, to win the laurel wreath of fame,
    Unless thou hast a heart to hear the world's taunts, even shame.

    Kind, noble, generous, they will give thy sister to me, dear:
    But I must leave thee, child, and seek a home away from here.
    Ah! I defy them to the last; they shall not part us, child
    And thy mother's hand shall rear thee — rear thee, pure and undefiled!

    May the fond prayers of thy mother prove a love-protecting shield
    From each sorrow, and each harrowing care, that life doth ever yield.
    And may the hand of love, my child, pluck thorns from thy bright flowers;
    And may'st thou find a home at last in heaven's celestial bowers.

  37. Don't Wake the Baby

    by Anonymous

    Baby sleeps, so we must tread
    Softly round her little bed,
    And be careful that our toys
    Do not fall and make a noise.

    We must not talk, but whisper low,
    Mother wants to work, we know,
    That, when father comes to tea,
    All may neat and cheerful be.

  38. Baby's Dimples

    by John B. Tabb

    Love goes playing hide-and-seek
    'Mid the roses on her cheek,
    With a little imp of Laughter,
    Who, the while he follows after,
    Leaves the footprints that we trace
    All about the Kissing-place.

  39. The Butterfly

    by Lydia Howard Sigourney

    A butterfly bask'd on a baby's grave,
    Where a lily had chanced to grow:
    "Why art thou here, with thy gaudy die,
    When she of the blue and sparkling eye,
    Must sleep in the churchyard low?"

    Then it lightly soar'd through the sunny air,
    And spoke from its shining track:
    "I was a worm till I won my wings,
    And she whom thou mourn'st like a seraph sings:
    Wouldst thou call the bless'd one back?"

  40. A Secret

    by John Charles McNeill

    A little baby went to sleep
    One night in his white bed,
    And the moon came by to take a peep
    At the little baby head.

    A wind, as wandering winds will do,
    Brought to the baby there
    Sweet smells from some quaint flower that grew
    Out on some hill somewhere.

    And wind and flower and pale moonbeam
    About the baby's bed
    Stirred and woke the funniest dream
    In the little sleepy head.

    He thought he was all sorts of things
    From a lion to a cat;
    Sometimes he thought he flew on wings,
    Or fell and fell, so that

    When morning broke he was right glad
    But much surprised to see
    Himself a soft, pink little lad
    Just like he used to be.

    I would not give this story fame
    If there were room to doubt it,
    But when he learned to talk, he came
    And told me all about it.

  41. The New Arrival

    by George W. Cable

    There came to port last Sunday night
    The queerest little craft,
    Without an inch of rigging on;
    I looked and looked and laughed.
    It seemed so curious that she
    Should cross the Unknown water,
    And moor herself right in my room,
    My daughter, O my daughter!

    Yet by these presents witness all
    She's welcome fifty times,
    And comes consigned to Hope and Love
    And common-meter rhymes.
    She has no manifest but this,
    No flag floats o'er the water,
    She's too new for the British Lloyds—
    My daughter, O my daughter!

    Ring out, wild bells, and tame ones too!
    Ring out the lover's moon!
    Ring in the little worsted socks!
    Ring in the bib and spoon!
    Ring out the muse! ring in the nurse!
    Ring in the milk and water!
    Away with paper, pen, and ink—
    My daughter, O my daughter!

  42. Baby's Breakfast

    by Emilie Poulsson

    Baby wants his breakfast,
    Oh! what shall I do?
    Said the cow, "I'll give him
    Nice fresh milk—moo-oo!"

    Said the hen, "Cut-dah cut!
    I have laid an egg
    For the Baby's breakfast—
    Take it now, I beg!"

    And the buzzing bee said,
    "Here is honey sweet.
    Don't you think the Baby
    Would like that to eat?"

    Then the baker kindly
    Brought the Baby's bread.
    "Breakfast is all ready,"
    Baby's mother said;

    "But before the Baby
    Eats his dainty food,
    Will he not say 'Thank you!'
    To his friends so good?"

    Then the bonny Baby
    Laughed and laughed away.
    That was all the "Thank you"
    He knew how to say.

  43. The First Tooth

    by William Brighty Rands

    There once was a wood, and a very thick wood,
    So thick that to walk was as much as you could;
    But a sunbeam got in, and the trees understood.

    I went to this wood, at the end of the snows,
    And as I was walking I saw a primrose;
    Only one! Shall I show you the place where it grows?

    There once was a house, and a very dark house,
    As dark, I believe, as the hole of a mouse,
    Or a tree in my wood, at the thick of the boughs.

    I went to this house, and I searched it aright,
    I opened the chambers, and I found a light;
    Only one! Shall I show you this little lamp bright?

    There once was a cave, and this very dark cave
    One day took a gift from an incoming wave;
    And I made up my mind to know what the sea gave.

    I took a lit torch, I walked round the ness
    When the water was lowest; and in a recess
    In my cave was a jewel. Will nobody guess?

    O there was a baby, he sat on my knee,
    With a pearl in his mouth that was precious to me,
    His little dark mouth like my cave of the sea!

    I said to my heart, "And my jewel is bright!
    He blooms like a primrose! He shines like a light!"
    Put your hand in his mouth! Do you feel? He can bite!

  44. Baby-Land

    by George Cooper

    "Which is the way to Baby-land?"
    "Any one can tell;
    Up one flight,
    To your right;
    Please to ring the bell."

    "What can you see in Baby-land?"
    "Little folks in white—
    Downy heads,
    Cradle-beds,
    Faces pure and bright!"

    "What do they do in Baby-land?"
    "Dream and wake and play,
    Laugh and crow,
    Shout and grow;
    Jolly times have they!"

    "What do they say in Baby-land?"
    "Why, the oddest things;
    Might as well
    Try to tell
    What a birdie sings!"

    "Who is the Queen of Baby-land?"
    "Mother, kind and sweet;
    And her love,
    Born above,
    Guides the little feet."

  45. Hush, Little Baby (The Mockingbird Song)

    by Anonymous

    Hush, little baby, don't say a word,
    Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird.

    If that mockingbird won't sing,
    Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring

    If that diamond ring turns brass,
    Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass.

    If that looking glass gets broke,
    Mama's gonna buy you a billy goat,

    If that billy goat don't pull,
    Mama's gonna buy you a cart and bull.

    If that cart and bull turn over,
    Mama's gonna buy you a dog named Rover.

    If that dog named Rover won't bark,
    Mama's gonna buy you a horse and cart.

    If that horse and cart fall down,
    You'll be the sweetest little baby in town.

  46. A Baby's Hands

    by Margaret E. Sangster

    God made the rivers, the hills, and the seas,
    God made the flowers, the grass, and the trees;
    God made the clouds, and the waves, silver-crested,
    Then God made the hands of a baby—and rested!

    How did He make them? Well, nobody knows—
    Some say He dreamed of the bud of a rose,
    And that He woke as the dawn swept away
    Night in the dancing pink promise of day.

    Maybe He thought of the light of a star,
    (That's why He made them as soft as they are!)
    Maybe He watched while a new butterfly,
    Light as a sunbeam, went fluttering by.

    Maybe He walked in a garden, dew-kissed,
    That's why He made them as frail as the mist—
    Then as He leaned from His heaven above,
    God made them strong as His greatest gift—LOVE!

    God made the mountains—we wonder at these—
    God made the splendor of sunsets and trees;
    God made vast mines where a world's wealth is piled,
    Then God made the hands of a baby—and smiled!

  47. A Little Face

    by Kate Slaughter McKinney

    A little face to look at,
    A little face to kiss;
    Is there anything, I wonder,
    That’s half so sweet as this?

    A little cheek to dimple
    When smiles begin to grow
    A little mouth betraying
    Which way the kisses go.

    A slender little ringlet,
    A rosy little ear;
    A little chin to quiver
    When falls the little tear.

    A little face to look at,
    A little face to kiss;
    Is there anything, I wonder,
    That’s half so sweet as this?

    A little hand so fragile
    All through the night to hold
    Two little feet so tender
    To tuck in from the cold.

    Two eyes to watch the sunbeam
    That with the shadow plays—
    A darling little baby
    To kiss and love always.

  48. Six Weeks Old

    by Christopher Morley

    He is so small, he does not know
    The summer sun, the winter snow;
    The spring that ebbs and comes again,
    All this is far beyond his ken.

    A little world he feels and sees:
    His mother's arms, his mother's knees;
    He hides his face against her breast,
    And does not care to learn the rest.

  49. The High Chair

    by Christopher Morley

    Grimly the parent matches wit and will:
    Now, Weesy, three more spoons! See Tom the cat,
    He'd drink it. You want to be big and fat
    Like Daddy, don't you? (Careful now, don't spill!)
    Yes, Daddy'll dance, and blow smoke through his nose,
    But you must finish first. Come, drink it up—
    (Splash!) Oh, you must keep both hands on the cup.
    All gone? Now for the prunes....
    And so it goes.

    This is the battlefield that parents know,
    Where one small splinter of old Adam's rib
    Withstands an entire household offering spoons.
    No use to gnash your teeth. For she will go
    Radiant to bed, glossy from crown to bib
    With milk and cereal and a surf of prunes.

  50. Baby Understands

    by Ed Blair

    Out in the shade of the trees in the yard,
    In its cool crib is the baby;
    Cooing, then kicking its feet fast and hard,
    Looking above is the baby.
    Ev'rything talks to the sweet baby there—
    Old Mister Blue Jay and Robin so fair—
    And they look down with a wondering air,
    Chirping sweet notes to the baby.

    Baby's blue eyes soon discover them there,
    For he is watching, is baby;
    Two hands are moving, two feet in the air,
    Cooing a welcome is baby.
    He understands all the notes that they sing
    Of their dear birdlings that nested this spring,

    And what a pleasure their raising did bring."
    He understands, does the baby.

    Then the wind tosses the branches around,
    Just for his pleasure, knows baby,
    And far above him a sky world he's found,
    Blue like the eyes of the baby.
    Bending above these the sky takes a peep,
    Wind whispers softly, "Thy mamma will keep
    Baby from harm"—and he's now fast asleep;
    He understands, does the baby.

  51. The Baby

    by Hugh Miller

    No shoes to hide her tiny toes,
    No stockings on her feet;
    Her little ankles white as snow,
    Or early blossoms sweet.

    Her simple dress of sprinkled pink;
    Her tiny, dimpled chin;
    Her rosebud lips and bonny mouth
    With not one tooth between.

    Her eyes so like her mother's own,
    Two gentle, liquid things;
    Her face is like an angel's face—
    We're glad she has no wings.