Poems (Piatt)/Volume 1/Hiding the Baby

by Sarah Piatt

HIDING THE BABY.

Hold him close, and closer hold him.
 (Ah, but this is time to cry!)
Bring his pretty cloak and fold him
 From the Old Man going by.
What Old Man?—you cannot guess?
 Not the Old Man of the Sea,
Nor the Mountains, I confess,
 Can be half so old as he.

Could we only catch and bind him,
 To some prison, shutting low,
Where the sun could never find him,
 This Old Man should surely go.
We would steal his scythe away,
 (Grass should grow about our feet,)
And he should not take to-day
 From us while to-day was sweet.

Gypsy ways he has, most surely,
 (Gypsy ways are hardly right;)
Wandering, stealing, yet securely
 Keeping somehow out of sight.
From our trees the fruit he shakes;
 Silver, lace, or silk we miss
From our houses; this he takes—
 This, and other things than this.

Here he comes with buds that wither;
 Here he comes with birds that fly;
Pretty playthings he brings hither,
 Just to take them by and by.
He could find you in the night,
 Though you should put out the moon—
He can see without a light,
 He will take the Baby soon.

Head with gold enough about it
 Just to light this whole world through;
Ah, what shall we do without it—
 Children, say, what shall we do?
Tell me, is there any place
 We can hide the Baby? Say.
Can we cover up his face
 While the Old Man goes this way?

There is one place, one place only,
 We can hide him if we must—
Very still and low and lonely;
 We can cover him with dust—
Shut a wild rose in his hand;
 Set a wild rose at his head;
This Old Man, you understand,
 Cannot take from us the dead.