Verse > William Wordsworth > Complete Poetical Works
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THE INFANT M---- M----

          UNQUIET Childhood here by special grace
          Forgets her nature, opening like a flower
          That neither feeds nor wastes its vital power
          In painful struggles. Months each other chase,
          And nought untunes that Infant's voice; no trace
          Of fretful temper sullies her pure cheek;
          Prompt, lively, self-sufficing, yet so meek
          That one enrapt with gazing on her face
          (Which even the placid innocence of death
          Could scarcely make more placid, heaven more bright)        10
          Might learn to picture, for the eye of faith,
          The Virgin, as she shone with kindred light;
          A nursling couched upon her mother's knee,
          Beneath some shady palm of Galilee.
                                                              1827.


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