I wonder what it is that babies dream

When cradled fast within their mother's arms

All innocence, safe from the sun's harsh beam

Unknowing of Life's cares, its griefs, its charms

Its joys, its sorrows, loves, hates, curses, deaths

As well as all the patchwork beings and forms

Which paint our haunted landscape.  Time enwreaths

Its poisons 'round each heartbeat, and the worms

Await our morbid flesh with iron jaws --

Yet, little one, what cans't thou know of this

When thy small world scarce reaches past these walls

And all thy life rests in thy mother's kiss?

When thou hast yet to hear the skylark sing

Or clasp a pebble, touch a leaf, or run

Barefoot along the ocean's sandy shore;

Hast never felt a kitten purr, nor held

A butterfly whose trembling, goss'mer wing

Unfurled in resurrection with Spring's sun?

A hundred-thousand wondrous sights and more

Thou hast no inkling of -- for unbeheld

By thee, it were as tho they had no being --

As, unbeknownst to thee, death hath no sting.

Then, Blesséd child, thou cans't but dream of love

For love alone is all thee've yet to know

And my one wish is that thy sweet dreams prove

To ever be of those who love you so.