  Within his little crib the baby lies; And ’neath the lashes of his closing eyes I catch a glimpse of summer’s bluest skies. His tiny head, upon its pillow white, Is crowned with curls, like sunshine fair and bright, Half hidden now from his admirer’s sight. His cheek, soon flushed in a refreshing sleep, Is like the petal of a wild-rose deep, While in and out the pretty dimples peep. His rose-bud mouth, in such an hour as this, Invites the pleasure of a loving kiss, Which even strangers could not take amiss. His tiny teeth are like the precious pearls And, when his lip in childish laughter curls, They shine, as perfect as a baby girl’s. His shapely ears, like sea-shells pink and small, Which soon discern the mother song and call, Can quickly hear the slightest sound of all. His little nose, not yet in proper style, Which mother models every little while, Is quite enough to make a critic smile. His dimpled hands, unlike the restless feet Securely pinned within his blanket neat, Oft find a place outside the snowy sheet. When baby sleeps the house is hushed and lone; His rubber playthings to the floor are thrown, While patient pussy seeks her peace unknown. When baby wakes the house is filled with joy; His lusty cries no loving heart annoy, While mother runs to take her darling boy. |
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