Baby May

William Cox Bennett (1820–1895)

CHEEKS as soft as July peaches;

Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches

Poppies paleness; round large eyes

Ever great with new surprise;

Minutes filled with shadeless gladness;

Minutes just as brimmed with sadness;

Happy smiles and wailing cries;

Crows, and laughs, and tearful eyes;

Lights and shadows, swifter born

Than on wind-swept autumn corn;

Ever some new tiny notion,

Making every limb all motion;

Catchings up of legs and arms;

Throwings back and small alarms;

Clutching fingers; straightening jerks;

Twining feet whose each toe works;

Kickings up and straining risings;

Mother’s ever new surprisings;

Hands all wants and looks all wonder

At all things the heavens under;

Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings

That have more of love than lovings;

Mischiefs done with such a winning

Archness that we prize such sinning;

Breakings dire of plates and glasses;

Graspings small at all that passes;

Pullings off of all that ’s able

To be caught from tray or table;

Silences,—small meditations

Deep as thoughts of cares for nations;

Breaking into wisest speeches

In a tongue that nothing teaches;

All the thoughts of whose possessing

Must be wooed to light by guessing;

Slumbers,—such sweet angel-seemings

That we ’d ever have such dreamings;

Till from sleep we see thee breaking,

And we ’d always have thee waking;

Wealth for which we know no measure;

Pleasure high above all pleasure;

Gladness brimming over gladness;

Joy in care; delight in sadness;

Loveliness beyond completeness;

Sweetness distancing all sweetness;

Beauty all that beauty may be;—

That ’s May Bennett; that ’s my baby.