[This is almost the last part of this poem]
Baby is the cause of this;
Odd it seems, but so it is.--
Baby, with her pretty prate,
Molten, half articulate,
Full of hints, suggestions, catches,
Broken verse, and music snatches,
Like an angel gone astray,
Must be taught the homeward way;
Plant of heaven, she, rooted lowly,
Must put forth a blossom holy,
Must, with culture high and steady,
Slow unfold a gracious lady;
We must keep her full of wonder
At the daisy and the thunder,
At the moon and stars and sea,
At the butterfly and bee;
Never her and childhood part,
Change the brain, but keep the heart,
So, from lips and hands and looks,
She must learn to honour books,
Yet must learn that mere appearing
Gives no title to revering;
That a pump is not a well,
Nor a priest an oracle:
Sight convincing to her mind,
I will separate kind from kind,
And those books, though honoured by her,
Gently lay upon the fire;
Sacred form even shall not hinder
Their consumption to a cinder.
Would you see the sight immortal,
One short pace within our portal?
I will fetch her.--See how white!
Solemn pure--a light in light!
Gleaming frock and lily-skin
White as whitest ermelin
Washed in palest thinnest rose!
Like a thought of God she goes,
Wandering ever in the dance
Of her own sweet radiance:
Books and music far asunder--
Of all wonders, she's the wonder!
But, my friends, I've rattled plenty
to suffice for mornings twenty,
I should never stop of course,
therefore stop I will perforce.--
Did I lead them up, choragic,
To reveal their nature magic,
Twenty things, past contradiction,
Yet would prove I spoke no fiction
Of the room's belongings cryptic
Read by light apocalyptic.
There is that machine, glass-masked,
With continual questions tasked,
Ticking with untiring rock:
It is called an eight-day clock;
But to me the thing appears
Made for winding up the years;
Yes, thank God, fast as it may,
On it draws a mighty day.
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