by Laurence Alma-Tadema
When the sun has left the hilltop
And the daisies' fringe is furled,
When the birds from wood and meadow
In their hidden nests are curled,
Then I think of all the babies
That are sleeping in the world.
There are babies in the high lands
And babies in the low,
There are pale ones wrapped in furry skins
On the margins of the snow,
And brown ones naked in the isles
Where all the spices grow.
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