I love thee, Baby! for thine own sweet sake; <br />Those azure eyes, that faintly dimpled cheek, <br />Thy tender frame, so eloquently weak, <br />Love in the sternest heart of hate might wake; <br />But more when o'er thy fitful slumber bending <br />Thy mother folds thee to her wakeful heart, <br />Whilst love and pity, in her glances blending, <br />All that thy passive eyes can feel impart: <br />More, when some feeble lineaments of her, <br />Who bore thy weight beneath her spotless bosom, <br />As with deep love I read thy face, recur,-- <br />More dear art thou, O fair and fragile blossom; <br />Dearest when most thy tender traits express <br />The image of thy mother’s loveliness.<br /><br />Percy Bysshe Shelley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-ianthe/
