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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
Only eight pounds to hold a soul
Oh, mother! laugh your merry note,
Ethel Lynn Beers (1827-1879]
A BABY'S feet, like seashells pink,
Might tempt, should heaven see meet,
Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat
No flower-bells that expand and shrink
A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled,
Ope if you touch, though close upcurled,-
Then, even as warriors grip their brands
They close, clenched hard like tightening bands.
No rosebuds yet by dawn impearled
A baby's eyes, ere speech begin,
Bless all things bright enough to win
Love while the sweet thing laughs and lies,
Sees perfect in them Paradise!
Their glance might cast out pain and sin,
Their speech make dumb the wise,
By mute glad godhead felt within
A baby's eyes.
Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]
Two little feet, so small that both may nestle
Two tender feet upon the untried border
Of life's mysterious land.
Dimpled, and soft, and pink as peach-tree blossoms,
How can they walk among the briery tangles,
These rose-white feet, along the doubtful future,
Alas! since Woman has the heavier burden,
Love, for a while, will make the path before them
Will cull away the brambles, letting only
The roses blossom there.
But when the mother's watchful eyes are shrouded
And these dear feet are left without her guiding,
How will they be allured, betrayed, deluded,
Into what dreary mazes will they wander,
Will they go stumbling blindly in the darkness.
Or find the upland slopes of Peace and Beauty,
Will they go toiling up Ambition's summit,
Or in some nameless vale, securely sheltered,
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
Who find their journey full of pains and losses,
How shall it be with her, the tender stranger,
Before whose unstained feet the world's rude highway
Ah! who may read the future? For our darling
And pray that He who feeds the crying ravens
NAE shoon to hide her tiny taes,
Her supple ankles white as snaw,
Her simple dress o' sprinkled pink,
Her puckered lips, an' baumy mou',
Her een sae like her mither's een,
She is the buddin' of our luve,
We maun na luve the gift owre weel,
We still maun luve the Giver mair,
An' see Him in the given;
An' sae she'll lead us up to Him,
Jeremiah Eames Rankin [1828-1904]
SOFT little hands that stray and clutch,
Close sleep as flowers at night that fold,
Hopes, fears, prayers, longings, joys and woes,-
More, more than wisdom understands
And love, love only knows.
Laurence Binyon [1869
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,
Bartholomew is hugged and kissed:
He loves a flower in either fist.
Bartholomew's my saucy son:
No mother has a sweeter one!
Norman Gale [1862
My child came to me with the equinox,