And oh, so tenderly bring them away?
The paths are winding and past all finding
By all save the storks, who understand
The gates and the highways and the intricate byways
That lead to Babyland.
All over the valley of Babyland
Sweet flowers bloom in the soft green moss.
And under the blooms fair, and under the leaves there,
Lie little heads like spools of floss.
With a soothing number, the river of slumber