First the Infant in Its Mother's Arms

Baby, of all mysterious things,
You're stranger far than stars or kings.
You stare superbly day by day,
Nor let your large reserve give way.
Unfathomable mysteries
Lurk in your big, unseeing eyes,
Making brave memories, and yet,
Making them only to forget.
But though reflectively you blink,
Trying to make us think you think,
We know you cannot think or talk,
You cannot run, you cannot walk;
You little human mystery,
You can't do anything but be.

You small, content, safe-guarded thing,
Nestling beneath your mother's wing.
You're all so new; your roseleaf skin,
Your dewy eyes and dimpled chin,
Your pinch of hair and pound of flesh
Are all so delicate and fresh.
Then, Baby, every little while
You cry. And then perhaps you smile.
You cry without a bit of reason,
You laugh both in and out of season;
A wise proceeding, I suppose,
If that is all the speech one knows.

But sometimes do the dull hours drag?
And sometimes does your patience flag?