AS a little child whom his mother has chidden, Wrecked in the dark in a storm of weeping, Sleeps with his tear-stained eyes closed hidden And, with fists clenched, sobs still in his sleeping, So in my breast sleeps Love, O white lady, What does he care though the rest are playing, With rattles and drums in the woodlands shady, Happy children, whom Joy takes maying! Ah, do not wake him, lest you should hear him Scolding the others, breaking their rattles, Smashing their drums, when their play comes near him -- Love who, for me, is a god of battles! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A TRIBUTE OF GRASSES by HAMLIN GARLAND PATIENCE by PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE FLOWERS WITHOUT FRUIT by JOHN HENRY NEWMAN I AM THE PEOPLE, THE MOB by CARL SANDBURG LOVE'S CALENDAR by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH TO A REPUBLICAN FRIEND, 1848, CONTINUED by MATTHEW ARNOLD |