THE POET'S RIVAL!
Across my lap the baby lies
The soul-light dawning in his eyes;
I, bending, turn aside to look
Adown the pages of my book.
The soul-light dawning in his eyes;
I, bending, turn aside to look
Adown the pages of my book.
With flash of thought and fair conceit,
The fair lines run on rhythmic feet;
And sparkling fancies gem the brink
Of this clear well from which I drink.
The fair lines run on rhythmic feet;
And sparkling fancies gem the brink
Of this clear well from which I drink.
But sudden, all the poet's skill
Is dimmed by something sweeter still,
And all his dreamings, high and grand,
Lie hid beneath a baby's hand.
Is dimmed by something sweeter still,
And all his dreamings, high and grand,
Lie hid beneath a baby's hand.
I stoop to kiss its dimpled grace,
I turn to read my darling's face,
While falls unheeded to the floor
The broken spell which binds no more.
I turn to read my darling's face,
While falls unheeded to the floor
The broken spell which binds no more.
O glow of wit! O prayer of saint!
O brightest picture pen can paint!
O brightest picture pen can paint!
