Oh, what has been born in the night
To bask in this blithe summer morn?
She peers, in a dream of delight,
For something new-made or new-born.
Not spider-webs under the tree,
Not swifts in their cradle of mud,
But—“Look, father, Sweet Mrs. Pea
Has two little babies in bud!”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem