The Poet and the Baby
How’s a man to write a sonnet, can you tell,—How’s he going to weave the dim, poetic spell,—When a-toddling on the floorIs the muse he must adore,And this muse he loves, not wisely, but too well?
Now, to write a sonnet, every one allows,One must always be as quiet as a mouse;But to write one seems to meQuite superfluous to be,When you ‘ve got a little sonnet in the house.
Just a dainty little poem, true and fine,That is full of love and life in every line,Earnest, delicate, and sweet,Altogether so completeThat I wonder what’s the use of writing mine.