THE INFANT'S SOUL. SWEET baby, little as thou art, Thou hast a little human heart, Yet, being all that man can be, Sweet angels in their ministry Soul! never say the soul is not The soul is life, the life that lives, And buzzes 'mid the million hives That swarm out every day. In every man, in every babe, Beneath the spacious cope, Where eastern wight with astrolabe Might take the horoscope. TO DEAR LITTLE KATY HILL. OFT have I conn'd, in merry mood or grave, Or love subdued by fear of what it may be. That is, or should be, Flora's own dear pet; Than to explain to each expectant mother At the last day, the day of wrath and love, Shall spring from earth and meet the promised skies And only God remember who they were. And lynx-eyed Love, my little Catherine, life: The lucid whiteness of the flower-soft skin, Blue as the shadow of the halcyon's breast, Oh, may each omen of thy form and hue, The lamb's pure white, the clear and hopeful blue, Whose various virtues form a virtuous whole! |