To A January Baby

A poem for a baby born in January. One of the bleakest months, with very little color. The world seems black and white in January, but this poem talks about the things to come before the new baby reaches one! Enjoy this poem by Wilhelmina Stitch and share it with a January baby!

A note to the parents of a January baby, the world is full of hope and joy when they see their new little baby!

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To A January Baby
by Wilhelmina Stitch

Although, small one, you cannot speak,
Doubtless you have this thought in mind -
The world you've reached is bare and bleak
And harsh of breath and far from kind.

But do not fret, my little one,
For soon a wondrous change you'll see;
And long before your legs can run
There will be leaves on every tree.

And long before your lips let fall
Such singing words as "Mum" and "Dad"
You'll hear the cuckoo's human call -
"Cuckoo, dear you, Cuckoo. Be glad."

When you can wave your arms about
And with your hands make magic passes,
The lilac blossom will be out
And daffodils dance with the grasses.

Ah, babe! though this bleak month you chose
In which to reach your mother's arms,
At six months old you'll see a rose -
A replica of your sweet charms.

You'll watch all nature turn to gold,
And then when this bleak month returns,
You'll have a cake, dear One-year-old,
On which a little candle burns.

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A thought by Wilhelmina Stitch about winter fire and how wonderful a baby is to hold and cuddle during the winter season.

A Winter's Thought
by Wilhelmina Stitch

What is more lovely, think you, than a fire, with dark, mysterious hills blacker than night,
through which a cavern, like a great desire, glows golden red, its walls with gems bedight?
And flames, like sprites so tantalizing, bold, flirt with these hilltops, daring, debonair;
now blue, now red, now robed in flaunting gold, they flicker, bend, and leap into the air!

What is more lovely than a fire,
think you, awaiting one who treads the homeward way, beaming its welcome,
comforting and true, to Weary Worker at the close of day?
I am much humbled when I think of fires which warm the spirit as they warm the hand,
and with no questioning of our desires, commune in silence, commune and understand.

What is more lovely than a fire that leaps at Mother's rings and Baby's wriggling toes,
and joins the laughter till the baby sleeps,
and then sleeps, too—a full-blown, grey-rimmed rose?

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