At Night Poem by Robert Kirkland Kernighan

Ah, yes, I miss the baby,

My little cherub bright ;
I miss it always in the day,

But miss it more at night.

It used to sleep upon my arm,

In quiet slumber there ;
One hand upon my neck, and one

Was smothered in my hair.

And now I wake from troubled sleep
Long hours before the dawn ;

The empty bed I fevered search,
To find that baby 's gone.

The weary days are full of tears,
But with the waning light

I stand beside my plundered bed
I miss it most at night.