Poetry Archives

A little baby went to sleep
 One night in his white bed,
And the moon came by to take a peep
 At the little baby head.

A wind, as wandering winds will do,
 Brought to the baby there
Sweet smells from some quaint flower that grew
 Out on some hill somewhere.

And wind and flower and pale moonbeam
 About the baby’s bed
Stirred and woke the funniest dream
 In the little sleepy head.

He thought he was all sorts of things
 From a lion to a cat;
Sometimes he thought he flew on wings,
 Or fell and fell, so that

When morning broke he was right glad
 But much surprised to see
Himself a soft, pink little lad
 Just like he used to be.

I would not give this story fame
 If there were room to doubt it,
But when he learned to talk, he came
 And told me all about it.