 | Poems (1895) |  |
83
XIII. TO BABY.
Thou art thy father's Soul, I do believe,My golden-hair'd and radiant-visaged Child!
Projected into light, and undefiled
By the dull flesh which makes it ache and grieve
Thro' thy brief scene, where shadow doth deceive,
Until by substance we are more beguiled:
With the strange thought I have both wept and smiled—
As one men suddenly from death reprieve.
O, speak to me of past and future things!
Of whence thou camest into this worn clay,
And whither thou dost tend in its decay.
Almost I seem to see cherubic wings
Ope from about thee, for swift heavenward flight;
And I grow dust in their departing light!
17th January 1840.
| Poems (1895) | |