  LOVE is a myth which men create from vapors of the heart and brain, Thus far the poet grave did get, then from a smile could not refrain, Someone was singing, he could hear Each word so low and sweet and clear, “By Baby Bunting! Papa’s gone a-hunting, To get a little rabbit skin To wrap the Baby-Bunting in.” Right well he knew that picture fair Might set a stoic’s heart aglow, For it was such a bonnie pair, So gently rocking to and fro. The old song was a foolish thing, Yet it seemed good to hear her sing, “By Baby Bunting! Papa’s gone a-hunting, To get a little rabbit-skin To wrap his Baby-Bunting in.” The sunshine would be creeping down Upon her hair of golden brown, At her awake, at him asleep, And both were his to have and hold, How runs the foolish song so old? “By Baby-Bunting! Papa’s gone a-hunting To get a little rabbit-skin To wrap the Baby-Bunting in.” But he must to his hunting go, A cloak this pen of his must win As soft as silk and white as snow, To wrap the Baby-Bunting in. Strange that his poem deep and strong Should wait upon a nursery song, “By Baby-Bunting! Papa’s gone a hunting, To get a little rabbit skin To wrap the Baby-Bunting in.” Love is a myth that men create From vapors of the heart and brain, O pen, I fear you lied of late! Hark, softly rings the old refrain! “By Baby-Bunting! Papa’s gone a-hunting, To get a little rabbit-skin To wrap the Baby-Bunting in.” |
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