A Poet's Harvest Home Being One Hundred Short Poems: By William Bell Scott ... With an Aftermath of Twenty Short Poems |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
I. |
II. |
INFANCY.
|
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
A Poet's Harvest Home | ||
170
INFANCY.
SUGGESTED BY A RAILWAY ACCIDENT.
“Let him lie still,” the young wife cried, “right soon
I shall be back,” and on my lap she laid
Her swaddled nurseling; startled even dismayed,
I looked down on the face like a white moon,
On the closed eyes and open mouth, no spoon
Had yet touched, and could see its breathing made
The folds expand in which it was arrayed:
It was alive, yet knew not night from noon.
I shall be back,” and on my lap she laid
Her swaddled nurseling; startled even dismayed,
I looked down on the face like a white moon,
On the closed eyes and open mouth, no spoon
Had yet touched, and could see its breathing made
The folds expand in which it was arrayed:
It was alive, yet knew not night from noon.
Beautiful was it? I can scarcely say.
I never held so young a thing before;
But wonderful it was to me, and may
Be likened to a shrine within closed door,
Closed, unlit, but from whence a breath made way
Te Deum laudamus, saying o'er and o'er.
I never held so young a thing before;
But wonderful it was to me, and may
Be likened to a shrine within closed door,
Closed, unlit, but from whence a breath made way
Te Deum laudamus, saying o'er and o'er.
A Poet's Harvest Home | ||