Poems (Linn)/My Infant Son
MY INFANT SON.
VIOLET of the sweet spring days, Do thy best with sun and rain;Deeply drink of evening dew Else thy blooming will be vain;Rivals are my baby's eyes,Like the constant azure skies.
June's wild rose, push deep thy root; Make thy blossoms fair to see,Curl thy petals pink and sweet; Soft and fragrant though they be,Softer, sweeter, pinker farBaby's cheeks all dimpled are.
Cherries ripe with summer's smile, Riper red is baby's mouth;Sweeter than your juices sweet, Is its kiss; and like the southBlowing through your branches greenIs the breath that comes between.
Lily of the summer, though Thou canst clothe thyself in white,Like the summer's snowy cloud, Spotless, beautiful and bright;Whiter is the forehead highWhere my baby's bright curls lie.
Shell that nestles in the sand, Rosy, pink, and fair to me,As some gem the wind and storm Wrested from the angry sea;Rosier, fairer and more sweetAre my darling's hands and feet.
Little eyes be ever thus Pure as summer's arching blue;Little lips your sweetness keep, Strong your speech be, noble, true;Fair cheek's bloom and forehead's snowNever shame's red mantle know.
Hands and feet so pink and small,— Dear God guide them day by day!Mother-love would keep from pain; Smooth all roughness from the way;Yet my heart makes one request:—Heaven lead them to the best.