Quotes about infant, page 11
In Memoriam A. H. H.: 54. Oh, yet we Trust that somehow Goo
Oh, yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final end of ill,
To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;
That nothing walks with aimless feet;
That not one life shall be destroy'd,
Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete;
That not a worm is cloven in vain;
That not a moth with vain desire
I shrivell'd in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another's gain.
Behold, we know not anything;
I can but trust that good shall fall
At last--far off--at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring.
So runs my dream: but what am I?
An infant crying in the night:
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poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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To the Snowdrop
Like pendent flakes of vegetating snow,
The early herald of the infant year,
Ere yet the adventurous crocus dares to blow,
Beneath the orchard boughs thy buds appear.
While still the cold north-east ungenial lours,
And scarce the hazel in the leafless copse,
Or sallows shew their downy powder'd flowers,
The grass is spangled with thy silver drops.
Yet when those pallid blossoms shall give place
To countless tribes, of richer hue and scent,
Summer's gay blooms, and autumn's yellow race,
I shall thy pale inodorous bells lament.
So journeying onward in life's varying track,
Ev'n while warm youth its bright illusion lends,
Fond memory often with regret looks back
To childhood's pleasures, and to infant friends.
poem by Charlotte Smith
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Creative Soul Quite Out Of Sorts
creative soul quite out of sorts
are you really source defined
by what you have done?
remembered by what you have written?
does not forest, lakes, rivers,
windswept beaches, ocean tides,
ebb flow in kiwi artistic souls?
do you not hunger starve feel
beginnings are glory dawn chorus
with an eternal day sun bean streams
birth begging come write me?
past writes be they haka or poi songs
lilting lullaby soft night whispered blessings
stretching dark far back to jaw thigh bones
stretch dark far back to ancestor jaw thigh bones
ancestor blessings running sleeping
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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All The Moms Aren't Bad
All the Moms aren't Bad
A smart cop Nandhia
heard the cries of an infant
in the hands of a beggar
who tried to move the hearts
of the passers-by for looting alms
to fill her ever-hungry purse
and pay the balance of the baby-price
to the cursed, widowed mother.
Being alerted by the probing
suspicious looks of the cop,
the beggar hardly tried to board a bus
before the woman-cop pulled her back
and told her to feed the wailing baby.
The shabby mom feigned to feed the baby
but the three weeks old infant
was not stopping her cries.
The police grilled the mule to tell
the story of the baby born to a bitch.
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poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Sunday
She’s a sweet girl as innocent as a newborn infant. She’s as beautiful as the first day of spring. Her smile brightens even the darkest of hours, her smile like a blossoming flower.
The scent of her hair wanders in the air, while flashbacks of recent kisses haunt me continuously.
How can I hurt such a woman? What kind of a man would that make me, a coward? Hiding behind a slightly bruised shell. HEY, but what the hell if I can’t offer her the kind of love she needs.
I planted a seed in good soil, but I doubt it’ll see its birth here on earth. I am a murderer of innocent lives, so you see I can’t make her my wife.
She’s a sweet girl as innocent as a new born infant. In fact her soul would be sold for less than it is worth. And for what it’s worth, I realize it isn’t fair, but in spite of everything I do care…
poem by Thato Maluleka
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From random pages
For once the eager lover
Affected to offer his best
And lo, there he is…
Crushed under shame!
The teenager ran
With the moving bus
To show her his 'worth'
There he is in a pool!
The young son blushed
When the father tried to know
The father smiled
The girl left the town!
I saw real fear in the eyes
Of a woman pregnant
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poem by Indira Babbellapati
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The Angel's Kiss
An angel stood beside the bed
Where lay the living and the dead.
He gave the mother -- her who died --
A kiss that Christ the Crucified
Had sent to greet the weary soul
When, worn and faint, it reached its goal.
He gave the infant kisses twain,
One on the breast, one on the brain.
"Go forth into the world," he said,
"With blessings on your heart and head,
"For God, who ruleth righteously,
Hath ordered that to such as be
"From birth deprived of mother's love,
I bring His blessing from above;
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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Auspicious of Nights
Auspicious of Nights
By: Adam M. Snow
On this auspicious of nights,
the children comes with fear delights,
awaken the infant, the newborn kin,
and open the world of pain within,
followed by all sins and sorrow,
as they wait to die this final morrow.
The wolves now vent, cry and howl,
as all children now gone on a prowl.
The moon once full now is shattered,
and all dreams are lost and scattered.
On this auspicious of nights,
they lose all their sights.
Now awakened yet asleep,
to the empty skies, they weep.
Cold and alone they stand vivified and afraid,
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poem by Adam M. Snow
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Tarzan (A Song)
Deep in the jungle you can hear a yell
Over in the jungle an air plane fell
All the apes came gathered around
To come see this thing that fell to the ground
All inside, none survived
Until the apes heard an infant cry
Aug aug ooga no child for mama Toga
A child for you it fell from the blue
Now the apes they took it home
Mama ape Toga raised it on her own
It grew up, it didn’t take long
Now swinging from the trees it big and strong
Aug aug ooga no child for mama Toga
A child for you it fell from the blue
Some they say, call him Tarzan
Some say half ape, some say half man
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poem by Bill Simmons
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Little Andrew
Air -- "Gypsy's Warning"
Andrew was a little infant,
And his life was two years old;
He was his parents' eldest boy,
And he was drowned, I was told.
His parents never more can see him
In this world of grief and pain,
And Oh! they will not forget him
While on earth they do remain.
On one bright and pleasant morning
His uncle thought it would be nice
To take his dear little nephew
Down to play upon a raft,
Where he was to work upon it,
An this little child would company be --
The raft the water rushed around it,
Yet he the danger did not see.
This little child knew no danger --
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poem by Julia A Moore
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