The year is nearly gone, my child, Your only year, or rather, Four months have passed since first you smiled Upon your blushing father. The nurse scoffs at my unctuous claim That you in infant frolic Grinned at your dad; she vows that same Grin meant a touch of colic. When babes are new, so I am told, Life bores them out of measure; I know some "babies" gray and old Who don't find life all pleasure. You were a solemn little chap When we became acquainted; I dubbed you saint and watched you nap— You 're not as fair as painted. What lonely nights we walked the floor! 'T was I did all the walking. And how you bawled! and how I swore— And set the neighbors talking! No doubt your voice will ring, some day, Full eloquent and pure; But don't be so ambitious, pray, While yet so immature. Still, darling infant, you are fair, Though ofttimes passing doleful; You look a cherub lying there, With eyes so big and soulful. If chance we spank your nether parts And often seem to flout you— Why, brightest jewel of our hearts, We couldn't do without you! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE HILL ABOVE THE MINE by MALCOLM COWLEY DOMESDAY BOOK: THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE GREAT RACE PASSES by EDGAR LEE MASTERS NOTHING WILL CURE THE SICK LION BUT TO EAT AN APE' by MARIANNE MOORE THE COMING OF WAR: ACTAEON by EZRA POUND |