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Thomas Hood - To A Sleeping Child
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I

Oh, `tis a touching thing, to make one weep,— 
A tender infant with its curtain`d eye, 
Breathing as it would neither live nor die 
With that unchanging countenance of sleep! 
As if its silent dream, serene and deep, 
Had lined its slumber with a still blue sky 
So that the passive cheeks unconscious lie 
With no more life than roses—just to keep 
The blushes warm, and the mild, odorous breath. 
O blossom boy! so calm is thy repose. 
So sweet a compromise of life and death, 
`Tis pity those fair buds should e`er unclose 
For memory to stain their inward leaf, 
Tinging thy dreams with unacquainted grief.


 
II

Thine eyelids slept so beauteously, I deem`d 
No eyes could wake so beautiful as they: 
Thy rosy cheeks in such still slumbers lay, 
I loved their peacefulness, nor ever dream`d 
Of dimples:—for those parted lips so seem`d, 
I never thought a smile could sweetlier play, 
Nor that so graceful life could chase away 
Thy graceful death,—till those blue eyes upbeam`d. 
Now slumber lies in dimpled eddies drown`d 
And roses bloom more rosily for joy, 
And odorous silence ripens into sound, 
And fingers move to sound.—All-beauteous boy! 
How thou dost waken into smiles, and prove, 
If not more lovely thou art more like Love!
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