TO HOPE, EIGHTEEN MONTHS OLD.
DARLING, with those big eyes of blue
That stare me gravely through and through In babyhood's undaunted wise, Whence came their colour and their size ?
Did Nature, kind to nurseling new, Lend them her speedwell's artless hue P And did the open eye of Day Teach yours to open the same way ?
Half with their gaze abashed, I call Your name or toss the aimless ball, As counter-charms to rid my sense Of those twin-fixed stars' influence!
Come, shall I lift you ? Round you wheel With arms outspread, prepared to feel My hands beneath them laid, and soar To spot oft visited before.
Dear, on my shoulder perched so high, Yet deign with my meek snit comply, Mix condescension with your bliss And bend your cheek for me to kiss !
Nay, listen must I, when you prate So eager-inarticulate ?
What Daniel could interpret, pray, Those voluble wise things you say Yet words you have, your little store: For see, I poke your pinafore And cry, "Who's this?" and straight I hear Your answer, "Baby," sweet and clear.
And when some far piano plays, With lifted finger and fixed gaze A solemn " Hark !" you utter plain, Rapt listener to an elfin strain Then, worldlier busy, dolly's head You amputate and earthward shed Its sawdust soul with flattening fist, Small Leveller, infant Nihilist !
Sweet Hope! methinks for comfort's sake, As here our toilsome way we take, The Hand that gave us flower and star Made you the winsome thing you are.
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