No Name

WHAT shall we call our baby, wife?The queer, wee mortal thing,With battling hand and restless foot,And ear like midge's wing.

We'll give her chrism sweet and small,A word that's soft and low,A sound to hear from lips of loveAs days of earth-life go.

Pansy, or Rose, or Daisy, dear?Helen, or Grace, or Fay?We've called her "Baby" long enough;'Tis near her christ'ning-day.

You don't care, do you, Baby dear?You'll gabble, cry, and crowIf we should call you Polly Ann,If we but speak it low.

But by and by, my woman-child,For tones you love to hearYour name shall be a fairy boatTo bear sweet loves-notes near.

And so it shall be soft and sweet,As wood-bird's matin shy;So, sweet, I can't decide to-day—I'll find one by and by.

****Ice-cold, and like a waxen thing,The quiet sleeper lies,With hands upfolded on its breast,And soul gone home to Paradise.

Its small life lived, its sheaf of tearsBound in a bundle small,It folded thus its waxen handsAt some Almighty call.

Our list'ning ear no accents caughtNo name like earth-born wordBut still methinks an angel called"Baby!" and Baby heard.