The first 30 of 45 poems for infants, by 29 poets, ranked by third-party data. How poems are ranked
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"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!
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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On parent knees, a naked new-born child,Weeping thou sat’st while all around thee smiled:So live, that sinking to thy life’s last sleep,Calm thou may’st smile, whilst all around thee weep.
The Oxford Book of English Verse 1250–1900, 1900
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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.
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.
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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I saw where in the shroud did lurkA curious frame of Nature's work;A flow'ret crushed in the bud,A nameless piece of BabyhoodWas in her cradle-coffin lying;Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:So soon to exchange the imprisoning wombFor darker closets of the tomb!She did but ope an eye, and putA clear beam forth, then straight up shutFor the long dark: ne'er more to seeThrough glasses of mortality.
Riddle of destiny, who can showWhat thy short visit meant, or knowWhat thy errand here below?Shall we say, that Nature blindCheck'd her hand, and changed her mindJust when she had exactly wroughtA finish'd pattern without fault?Could she flag, or could she tire,Or lack'd she the Promethean fire(With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd)That should thy little limbs have quicken'd?Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assureLife of health, and days mature:Woman's self in miniature!Limbs so fair, they might supply(Themselves now but cold imagery)The sculptor to make Beauty by.Or did the stern-eyed Fate descryThat babe or mother, one must die;So in mercy left the stockAnd cut the branch; to save the shockOf young years widow'd, and the painWhen Single State comes back againTo the lone man who, reft of wife,Thenceforward drags a maimed life?The economy of Heaven is dark,And wisest clerks have miss'd the markWhy human buds, like this, should fall,More brief than fly ephemeralThat has his day; while shrivell'd cronesStiffen with age to stocks and stones;And crabbed use the conscience searsIn sinners of an hundred years.--Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss:Rites, which custom does impose,Silver bells, and baby clothes;Coral redder than those lipsWhich pale death did late eclipse;Music framed for infants' glee,Whistle never tuned for thee;Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them,Loving hearts were they which gave them.Let not one be missing; nurse,See them laid upon the hearseOf infant slain by doom perverse.Why should kings and nobles havePictured trophies to their grave,And we, churls, to thee denyThy pretty toys with thee to lie--A more harmless vanity?
The Golden Treasury, ed. Francis Turner Palgrave
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O, hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight,Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright;The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see,They are all belonging, dear babie, to thee.O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo.
O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows,It calls but the warders that guard thy repose;Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red,Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed.O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo.
O, hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come,When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum;Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may,For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo.
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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"Be, rather than be called, a child of God,"Death whispered!--with assenting nod,Its head upon its mother's breast, The baby bowed, without demur--Of the kingdom of the Blest Possessor, not inheritor.
The World's Best Poetry, Vol. IV, ed. Bliss Carman, 1904
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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 heatThey stretch and spread and winkTheir ten soft buds that part and meet.
No flower-bells that expand and shrinkGleam half so heavenly sweet,As shine on life's untrodden brinkA baby's feet.
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 brandsWhen battle's bolt is hurled,They close, clenched hard like tightening bands.
No rosebuds yet by dawn impearledMatch, even in loveliest lands,The sweetest flowers in all the world,--A baby's hands.
A baby's eyes, ere speech begin,Ere lips learn words or sighs,Bless all things bright enough to winA 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 withinA baby's eyes.
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother,Are you awake in the dark?Here we lie cosily, close to each other:Hark to the song of the lark--"Waken!" the lark says, "waken and dress you;Put on your green coats and gay,Blue sky will shine on you, sunshine caress you--Waken! 'tis morning--'tis May!"
Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother,What kind of flower will you be?I'll be a poppy--all white, like my mother;Do be a poppy like me.What! you're a sun-flower? How I shall miss youWhen you're grown golden and high!But I shall send all the bees up to kiss you;Little brown brother, good-bye.
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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Have you not heard the poets tellHow came the dainty Baby BellInto 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 bellsOf the celestial asphodels,They fell like dew upon the flowers:Then all the air grew strangely sweet.And thus came dainty Baby BellInto this world of ours.
She came and brought delicious May;The swallows built beneath the eaves;Like sunlight, in and out the leavesThe robins went, the livelong day;The lily swung its noiseless bell;And on the porch the slender vineHeld out its cups of fairy wine.How tenderly the twilights fell!Oh, earth was full of singing-birdsAnd opening springtide flowers,When the dainty Baby BellCame to this world of ours.
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 brightAs if she yet stood in the lightOf those oped gates of Paradise.And so we loved her more and more:Ah, never in our hearts beforeWas love so lovely born:We felt we had a link betweenThis 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 earthWhen 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 downLike violets after rain.
And now the orchards, which were whiteAnd 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 changeIn 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 browWe saw a slender ring of flame.
God's hand had taken away the sealThat held the portals of her speech;And oft she said a few strange wordsWhose 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 thingsWho was Christ's self in purity.
It came upon us by degrees,We saw its shadow ere it fell--The knowledge that our God had sentHis messenger for Baby Bell.We shuddered with unlanguaged pain,And all our hopes were changed to fears,And all our thoughts ran into tearsLike 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!
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 BellOut of this world of ours.
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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I have got a new-born sister:I was nigh the first that kissed her.When the nursing-woman brought herTo 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 looksBetter in old English books;Ellen's left off long ago;Blanche is out of fashion now.None that I have named as yetIs so good as Margaret.Emily is neat and fine;What do you think of Caroline?How I'm puzzled and perplexedWhat to choose or think of next!I am in a little feverLest the name that I should give herShould disgrace her or defame her;--I will leave papa to name her.
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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Look at me with thy large brown eyes,Philip, my king!Round whom the enshadowing purple liesOf babyhood's royal dignities.Lay on my neck thy tiny handWith love's invisible scepter laden;I am thine Esther to commandTill thou shalt find a queen-handmaiden,Philip, my king.
O the day when thou goest a-wooing,Philip, my king!When those beautiful lips are suing,
And some gentle heart's bars undoing,Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and thereSittest love-glorified. Rule kindly,Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair,For we that love, ah! we love so blindly,Philip, my king.
Up from thy sweet mouth,--up to thy brow,Philip, my king!The spirit that there lies sleeping nowMay rise like a giant and make men bowAs to one heaven-chosen among his peers.My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer,Let me behold thee in future years!--Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer,Philip, my king.
--A wreath not of gold, but palm. One day,Philip, my king!Thou too must tread, as we trod, a wayThorny and cruel and cold and gray:Rebels within thee, and foes without,Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious,Martyr, yet monarch! till angels shout,As thou sittest at the feet of God victorious,"Philip, the king!"
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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The days are cold, the nights are long,The north-wind sings a doleful song;Then hush again upon my breast;All merry things are now at rest,Save thee, my pretty love!
The kitten sleeps upon the hearth;The crickets long have ceased their mirth;There's nothing stirring in the houseSave one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse;Then why so busy thou?
Nay! start not at that sparkling light;'Tis but the moon that shines so brightOn the window-pane bedropped with rain:There, little darling! sleep again,And wake when it is day!
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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Soft little hands that stray and clutch,Like fern fronds curl and uncurl bold,While baby faces lie in suchClose 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 understandsAnd love, love only knows.
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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Two little feet, so small that both may nestleIn one caressing hand,--Two tender feet upon the untried borderOf 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 themAll dainty, smooth, and fair,--Will cull away the brambles, letting onlyThe roses blossom there.
But when the mother's watchful eyes are shroudedAway 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 darknessOf 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 onlyA round of happy days.
But these are few. Far more there are who wanderWithout 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 highwayStretches so fair and wide?
Ah! who may read the future? For our darlingWe crave all blessings sweet,And pray that He who feeds the crying ravensWill guide the baby's feet.
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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All in our marriage gardenGrew, smiling up to God,A bonnier flower than everSucked the green warmth of the sod;O, beautiful unfathomablyIts little life unfurled;And crown of all things was our weeWhite Rose of all the world.
From out a balmy bosomOur 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 curledSo close and close about our weeWhite Rose of all the world.
With mystical faint fragranceOur house of life she filled;Revealed each hour some fairy towerWhere winged hopes might build!We saw--though none like us might see--Such precious promise pearledUpon the petals of our weeWhite Rose of all the world.
But evermore the haloOf angel-light increased,Like the mystery of moonlightThat folds some fairy feast.Snow-white, snow-soft, snow-silentlyOur darling bud uncurled,And dropped in the grave--God's lap--our weeWhite Rose of all the world.
Our Rose was but in blossom,Our life was but in spring,When down the solemn midnightWe heard the spirits sing,"Another bud of infancyWith holy dews impearled!"And in their hands they bore our weeWhite Rose of all the world.
You scarce could think so small a thingCould leave a loss so large;Her little light such shadow flingFrom dawn to sunset's marge.In other springs our life may beIn bannered bloom unfurled,But never, never match our weeWhite Rose of all the world.
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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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 mornThat it brought them only a baby.
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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"How many pounds does the baby weigh--Baby who came but a month ago?How many pounds from the crowning curlTo the rosy point of the restless toe?"
Grandfather ties the 'kerchief knot,Tenderly guides the swinging weight,And carefully over his glasses peersTo 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 worthOf 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 beThat could avail; God only knowsIts value in eternity.
Only eight pounds to hold a soulThat 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 forgetFrom baby's eyes looks out a soulThat claims a home in Eden yet.
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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Sleep, baby, sleep! what ails my dear,What ails my darling thus to cry?Be still, my child, and lend thine ear,To hear me sing thy lullaby.My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear?What thing to thee can mischief do?Thy God is now thy father dear,His holy Spouse thy mother too.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Though thy conception was in sin,A sacred bathing thou hast had;And though thy birth unclean hath been,A blameless babe thou art now made.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
While thus thy lullaby I sing,For thee great blessings ripening be;Thine Eldest Brother is a king,And hath a kingdom bought for thee.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear;For whosoever thee offendsBy thy protector threatened are,And God and angels are thy friends.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
When God with us was dwelling here,In little babes He took delight;Such innocents as thou, my dear,Are ever precious in His sight.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
A little infant once was He;And strength in weakness then was laidUpon His Virgin Mother's knee,That power to thee might be conveyed.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
In this thy frailty and thy needHe friends and helpers doth prepare,Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed,For of thy weal they tender are.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The King of Kings when He was born,Had not so much for outward ease;By Him such dressings were not worn,Nor such like swaddling-clothes as these.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby sleep.
Within a manger lodged thy Lord,Where oxen lay and asses fed:Warm rooms we do to thee afford,An easy cradle for a bed.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The wants that He did then sustainHave purchased wealth, my babe, for thee,And by His torments and His painThy rest and ease secured be.My baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou hast, yet more, to perfect thisA promise and an earnest gotOf gaining everlasting bliss,Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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Into the world he looked with sweet surprise;The children laughed so when they saw his eyes.
Into the world a rosy hand in doubtHe reached--a pale hand took one rosebud out.
"And that was all--quite all!" No, surely! ButThe children cried so when his eyes were shut.
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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Sleep, baby, sleep!Thy father's watching the sheep,Thy mother's shaking the dreamland tree,And down drops a little dream for thee. Sleep, baby, sleep!
Sleep, baby, sleep!The large stars are the sheep,The little stars are the lambs, I guess,The bright moon is the shepherdess. Sleep, baby, sleep!
Sleep, baby, sleep!Thy Savior loves His sheep;He is the Lamb of God on highWho for our sakes came down to die. Sleep, baby, sleep!
Poems Teachers Ask For
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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.
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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"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 wellTry to tellWhat a birdie sings!"
"Who is the Queen of Baby-land?""Mother, kind and sweet;And her love,Born above,Guides the little feet."
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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Small traveler from an unseen shore,By mortal eye ne'er seen before,To you, good-morrow.You are as fair a little dameAs ever from a glad world cameTo one of sorrow.
We smile above you, but you fret;We call you gentle names, and yetYour cries redouble.'Tis hard for little babes to prizeThe tender love that underliesA 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 ICan scarce unravel.
Perhaps you really wished to come,But now you are so far from homeRepent the trial.What! did you leave celestial blissTo 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 ajarFor your arriving,And trusty friends and lovers trueAre 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 kindWill grow upon your tender mind--If you will let them--
Until you find that your exchangeOf Heaven for earth expands your rangeE'en as a flier,And that your mother, you and I,If we do what we should, may flyThan Angels higher.
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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I recollect a nurse called Ann,Who carried me about the grass,And one fine day a fine young manCame up, and kissed the pretty lass:She did not make the least objection!Thinks I, "Aha!When I can talk I'll tell Mamma"--And that's my earliest recollection.
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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Cheeks as soft as July peaches,Lips whose dewy scarlet teachesPoppies paleness--round large eyesEver 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 bornThan on wind-swept Autumn corn,Ever some new tiny notionMaking 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 wonderAt all things the heavens under,Tiny scorns of smiled reprovingsThat have more of love than lovings,Mischiefs done with such a winningArchness, that we prize such sinning,Breakings dire of plates and glasses,Graspings small at all that passes,Pullings off of all that's ableTo be caught from tray or table;Silences--small meditations,Deep as thoughts of cares for nations,Breaking into wisest speechesIn a tongue that nothing teaches,All the thoughts of whose possessingMust 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.
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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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.
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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Baby wants his breakfast,Oh! what shall I do?Said the cow, "I'll give himNice fresh milk--moo-oo!"
Said the hen, "Cut-dah cut!I have laid an eggFor the Baby's breakfast--Take it now, I beg!"
And the buzzing bee said,"Here is honey sweet.Don't you think the BabyWould like that to eat?"
Then the baker kindlyBrought the Baby's bread."Breakfast is all ready,"Baby's mother said;
"But before the BabyEats his dainty food,Will he not say 'Thank you!'To his friends so good?"
Then the bonny BabyLaughed and laughed away.That was all the "Thank you"He knew how to say.
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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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!
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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Through the fierce fever I nursed him, and then he saidI was the woman - I! - that he would wed;He sent a boat with men for his own white priest,And he gave my father horses, and made a feast.I am his wife: if he has forgotten me,I will not live for scorning eyes to see.(Little wild baby, that knowest not where thou art going,Lie still! lie still! Thy mother will do the rowing.)
Three moons ago - it was but three moons ago -He took his gun, and started across the snow;For the river was frozen, the river that still goes downEvery day, as I watch it, to find the town;
The town whose name I caught from his sleeping lips,A place of many people and many ships.(Little wild baby, that knowest not where thou art going,Lie still! lie still! Thy mother will do the rowing.)
I to that town am going, to search the place,With his little white son in my arms, till I see his face.Only once shall I need to look in his eyes,To see if his soul, as I knew it, lives or dies.If it lives, we live, and if it is dead, we die,And the soul of my baby will never ask me why.(Little wild baby, that knowest not where thou art going,Lie still! lie still! Thy mother will do the rowing.)
I have asked about the river: one answered me,That after the town it goes to find the sea;That great waves, able to break the stoutest bark,Are there, and the sea is very deep and dark.If he is happy without me, so best, so best;I will take his baby and go away to my rest.(Little wild baby, that knowest not where thou art going,Lie still! lie still! Thy mother will do the rowing.The river flows swiftly, the sea is dark and deep:Little wild baby, lie still! Lie still and sleep.)
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
In 0 Wikipedias 1 anthology Poet in 2 Wikipedias
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 whyYou 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 onceWere only One.
You'll rhyme and woo, and fight and joke,Perhaps you'll pun!Such feats are never done by folkBefore 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 doAs you have done:(You crown a happy home, though youAre only One.)
But when he's grown shall you be hereTo share his fun,And talk of times when he (the Dear!)Was hardly One?
Dear Child, 'tis your poor lot to beMy little Son;I'm glad, though I am old, you see,--While you are One.
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
29 poets
| Century | Poems |
|---|---|
| 17th | 1 |
| 18th | 1 |
| 19th | 13 |
| 20th | 15 |
| Poet | Poems |
|---|---|
| Frederick Locker-Lampson | 2 |