Methinks ‘tis pretty sport to hear a child,
Rocking a word in mouth yet undefiled.
The tender racket rudely plays the sound,
Which weakly banded cannot back rebound,
And the soft air the softer roof does kiss,
With a sweet dying and a pretty miss,
Which hears no answer yet from the white rank
Of teeth, not risen from their coral bank.
The alphabet is searched for letters soft,
To try a word before it can be wrought,
And when it slides forth, it goes as nice,
As when a man does walk upon the ice.

– Thomas Bastard. De puero balbutiente

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Stranger, approach! within this iron door
Thrice locked and bolted, this rude arch beneath
That vaults with ponderous stone the cell; confined
By man, the great magician, who controuls
Fire, earth and air, and genii of the storm,
And bends the most remote and opposite things
To do him service and perform his will,–
A giant sits; stern Winter; here he piles,
While summer glows around, and southern gales
Dissolve the fainting world, his treasured snows
Within the rugged cave.–Stranger, approach!
He will not cramp thy limbs with sudden age,
Nor wither with his touch the coyest flower
That decks thy scented hair. Indignant here,
Like fettered Sampson when his might was spent
In puny feats to glad the festive halls
Of Gaza’s wealthy sons; or he who sat
Midst laughing girls submiss, and patient twirled
The slender spindle in his sinewy grasp;
The rugged power, fair Pleasure’s minister,
Exerts his art to deck the genial board;
Congeals the melting peach, the nectarine smooth,
Burnished and glowing from the sunny wall:
Darts sudden frost into the crimson veins
Of the moist berry; moulds the sugared hail:
Cools with his icy breath our flowing cups;
Or gives to the fresh dairy’s nectared bowls
A quicker zest. Sullen he plies his task,
And on his shaking fingers counts the weeks
Of lingering Summer, mindful of his hour
To rush in whirlwinds forth, and rule the year.

– Anna Lætitia Barbauld. Inscription for an Ice-House

O mother, I made a hawk my beloved
A plume on his head
Bells on his feet
He came pecking for grain

His beauty was as sharp as sunlight
And he was thirsty for fragrances
Third, his colour was that of a rose
He must be the son of a fair mother

A bed of love
I laid for him under moonlight
The sheet of this body was stained
That very instant when he laid his feet over it

The corners of my eyes hurt
A flood of tears engulfed me
All night long I tried to fathom
How he could do this to me

In early morning
With vattna, I scrubbed and bathed his body
But embers burst out
And my hands were burnt

I crushed churi for him
But he never ate
So I fed him the flesh of my heart

He took such a flight
That he never returned
O mother, I made a hawk my beloved….

– Shiv Kumar Batalvi. Maye Ni Main Ik Shikra Yaar Banaya