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NO NAME.
Aside a moment, shows us angels
Nearest when we seem alone.
Faithful spirits, true and tender,
Tethered only by the stars,
Walk far down the plains of heaven,
To meet us at the midnight's bars.
NO NAME.
WHAT shall we call our baby, wife?
The queer, wee mortal thing,
With battling hand and restless foot,
And ear like midge's wing.
We'll give her chrism sweet and small,
A word that's soft and low,
A sound to hear from lips of love
As days of earth-life go.
Pansy, or Rose, or Daisy, dear?
Helen, or Grace, or Fay?
We've called her "Baby" long enough;
'Tis near her christ'ning-day.
You don't care, do you, Baby dear?
You'll gabble, cry, and crow
If we should call you Polly Ann,
If we but speak it low.
