NOVEMBER SEVENTH
Sweet baby, sleep; what ails my dear?
What ails my darling thus to cry?
Be still my child and lend thine ear
To hear me sing thy lullaby.
My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;
Be still my dear: sweet baby, sleep.
George Wither
NOVEMBER EIGHTH
Through the soft, opened lips the air
Scarcely moves the coverlet.
One little wandering arm is thrown
At random on the counterpane;
And often the fingers close in haste,
As if their baby owner chased
The butterflies again.
Matthew Arnold
NOVEMBER NINTH
I saw her in childhood,
A bright gentle thing,
Like the dawn of the morn
Or the dews of the spring:
The daisies and harebells
Her playmates all day;
Herself as light-hearted
And artless as they.
B. F. Lyte
NOVEMBER TENTH
Thy small steps faltering round our hearth,
Thine een out-peering in their mirth,
Blue een that, like thine heart, seemed given
To be, forever, full of heaven.
Mrs. Browning
NOVEMBER ELEVENTH
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast.
Wordsworth