Higher than the wind can blow, Or the clouds can fly? Each star in its own glory Circles, circles still; As it was lit to shine and set, And do its Maker's will. Crimson curtains round my mother's bed, Silken soft as may be; Cool white curtains round about my bed, For I am but a baby. Baby lies so fast asleep That we cannot wake her: Will the Angels clad in white Baby lies so fast asleep That no pain can grieve her; Put a snowdrop in her hand, Kiss her once and leave her. 127 Better in I know a baby, such a baby,- Such a wrist where creases sink. "Cuddle and love me, cuddle and love me Oh, the bald head, and, oh, the sweet lips, delicate beautful |