Poems (Linn)/My Infant Son

by Edith Willis Linn

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 far
Baby'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 south
Blowing through your branches green
Is 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 high
Where 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 sweet
Are 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 snow
Never 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.