A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled 
Whence yet no leaf expands, 
Ope if you touch, though close upcurled, 
A baby's hands. 
Then, fast as warriors grip their brands 
When battle's bolt is hurled, 
They close, clenched hard like tightening bands. 
No rosebuds yet by dawn impearled 
Match, even in loveliest lands, 
The sweetest flowers in all the world-- 
A baby's hands. 


III

A baby's eyes, ere speech begin, 
Ere lips learn words or sighs, 
Bless all things bright enough to win 
A baby's eyes. 
Love, while the sweet thing laughs and lies, 
And sleep flows out and in, 
Sees perfect in them Paradise. 
Their glance might cast out pain and sin, 
Their speech make dumb the wise, 
By mute glad godhead felt within 
A baby's eyes. 

Added: May 20 2005 | Viewed: 1493 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Algernon Charles Swinburne
Poem: Étude Réaliste (excerpts)

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