WHOM THE GODS LOVE
He's so chubby and happy and wonderful,
Dainty and perfectly made,
That when he kicks at the sunbeams there,
Out on the grass in his cradle chair,
Somehow I feel afraid.
We ought to hide him away, I think,
Real beauty was always a bane,
If the gods get to know of his baby wiles,
Of his firm round limbs, or his magic smiles,
They'll want him back again.
WHISPER!
Hush, you! Hush! I think I hear
Just a little noise of humming!
If you see him waiting near
Please don't whisper him we're coming!
LITTLE BOYS
The roads go out to Macedon, the roads go out to Rome,
Some die in snowy Buffaloes and some turn home;
I've done the Alps and Apennines, and Naples to the moon,
For fancies cover splendid ground in a Summer afternoon.
And then I come to gloryland, and whom do I see there
But little Boyo Browneyes and Billy Wirehair?