Treasure Island

William Blake

(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827 / London)

Infant Sorrow


My mother groaned, my father wept,
Into the dangerous world I leapt;
Helpless, naked, piping loud,
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.

Struggling in my father's hands,
Striving against my swaddling bands,
Bound and weary, I thought best
To sulk upon my mother's breast.

Submitted: Wednesday, May 09, 2001
Edited: Wednesday, May 09, 2001

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  • Walterrean Salley (3/30/2013 7:48:00 PM)

    Even babies experience so much that we, as adults, don't realize. I'm glad this child (with proper nurturing) made it. Very gifted, he had so much to offer, and has left the world a beautiful legacy. May many others experience such feat. (Report) Reply

  • Poppi Westbury (2/28/2008 4:35:00 AM)

    This poem is so fun! The last line is perfect! Infant sorrow perfectly describes I think, how a little bub must feel upon arrival into the noisy bright world after being so snug in the womb for so long - at least until they realise you are there to love them and most importantly feed them ;) - then all sorrow must surely be gone! (Report) Reply

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