In shining ambuscade:

The child-brow, crowned by none,

Keeps its unchildlike shade.

Sleep, sleep, my crownless One!

Unchildlike shade!—no other babe doth wear

An aspect very sorrowful, as Thou.—

No small babe-smiles, my watching heart has seen,

To float like speech the speechless lips between;

No dovelike cooing in the golden air,

No quick short joys of leaping babyhood.