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.
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.
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, i
Baby-eyelids, baby-eyes.
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.
Blue eyes, against the whiteness pressed
Of little mother's hallowed breast, I
The while your trembling lips are fed,
Look up at mother's bended head, I
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.
Richard Le Gallienne [1866–
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;
Lest the name that I should give her
Should disgrace her or defame her;-
I will leave papa to name her.
"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."
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.
Ethel Lynn Beers [1827-1879]
A BABY'S feet, like seashells pink,
Might tempt, should heaven see meet,
An angel's lips to kiss, we think,
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
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