Elaine Goodale Eastman (1863–1953)

DIMPLED and flushed and dewy pink he lies,

Crumpled and tossed and lapt in snowy bands;

Aimlessly reaching with his tiny hands,

Lifting in wondering gaze his great blue eyes.

Sweet pouting lips, parted by breathing sighs;

Soft cheeks, warm-tinted as from tropic lands;

Framed with brown hair in shining silken strands,—

All fair, all pure, a sunbeam from the skies!

O perfect innocence! O soul enshrined

In blissful ignorance of good or ill,

By never gale of idle passion crossed!

Although thou art no alien from thy kind,

Though pain and death may take thee captive, still

Through sin, at least, thine Eden is not lost.