I may not win, nor call thee wife--
Then all my future let me sleep,
And one long dream be all my life.



Baby.


His cradle's his castle, and dainty his fare,
And all the world crowds just to see him lie there.
Whole volumes of rapture around him are heard,
But he keeps his counsel and says not a word.

His mother while hushing her baby to rest
Foretells for him all that can make a man blest.
But still he lies silent--his pride is not stirred
For all her fond visions, he says not a word.

His father feigns anger and swears that his son
Is cross and ill-tempered, and scolds him in fun
But though he speaks loud and demands to be heard
For threats as for praises, he says not a word.

A glance at the strange world around him he throws--
Whence came he? He knows not--nor whither he goes.
Vague memories of angels within him are stirred,
Too deep for mere speech--so he says not a word.

Yet answer there comes and as clear as can be,