Who can tell what a baby thinks? Who can follow the gossamer links By which the manikin feels his way Out from the shore of the great unknown, Blind, and wailing, and alone, Into the light of day?-- Out from the shore of the unknown sea, Tossing in pitiful agony,-- Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, Specked with the barks of little souls-- Barks that were launched on the other side, And slipped from Heaven on an ebbing tide! What does he think of his mother's eyes? What does he think of his mother's hair? What of the cradle-roof that flies Forward and backward through the air? What does he thinks of his mother's breast-- Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, Seeking it ever with fresh delight-- Cup of his life and couch of his rest? What does he think when her quick embrace Presses his hand and buries his face Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell With a tenderness she can never tell, Though she murmur the words Of all the birds-- Words she has learned to murmur well? Now he thinks he'll go to sleep! I can see the shadow creep Over his eyes, in soft eclipse, Over his brow, and over his lips, Out to his little finger-tips! Softly sinking, down he goes! Down he goes! Down he goes! [_Rising and carefully retreating to her seat_.] See! He is hushed in sweet repose! _David_. [_Yawning_.] Behold a miracle! Music transformed To morphine, and the drowsy god invoked By the poor prattle of a maiden's tongue! A moment more, and we should all have gone Down into dreamland with the babe! Ah, well! There is no end of wonders. _Ruth_. None, indeed! When lazy poets who have gorged themselves, And cannot keep awake, make the attempt To shift the burden of their drowsiness, And charge a girl with what they owe to greed. _David_. At your old tricks again! No sleep induced By song of yours, or any other bird's, Can linger long when you begin to talk. Grace, box your sister's ears for me, and save The trouble of my rising. _Ruth_. [_Advancing and kneeling by the side of Grace_.] Sister mine. Now give the proof of your obedience To your imperious lord! Strike, if you dare! I'll wake your baby if you lift your hand. Ha! king; ha! poet; who is master now-- Baby or husband? Pr'ythee, tell me that. Were I a man,--thank Heaven I am not!-- And had a wife who cared not for my will More than your wife for yours, I'd hang myself, Or wear an [***]. See! she kisses me! _David_. And answers to my will, though well she knows I'll spare to her so terrible a task, And take the awful burden on myself; Which I will do, in future, if she please! _Ruth_.