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WEIGHING THE BABY
"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 gla.s.ses 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."
n.o.body weighed the baby's smile, Or the love that came with the helpless one; n.o.body 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.
n.o.body weighed the baby's soul, For here on earth no weights there be That could avail; G.o.d 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.
Ethel Lynn Beers [1827-1879]
ETUDE REALISTE I
A baby's feet, like seash.e.l.ls 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 s.h.i.+ne 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 G.o.dhead felt within A baby's eyes.
Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]
LITTLE FEET
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.
Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]
THE BABIE
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 G.o.d gied us: We maun na luve the gift owre weel, 'Twad be nae blessin' thus.
