Robert Kirkland Kernighan

(25 April 1854 – 3 November 1926 / Ontario)

When Baby's Sick - Poem by Robert Kirkland Kernighan

The very birds sing soft and low,
And noiseless nod the lilac trees;
The spring time breezes lighter blow,
Soft hum the sympathetic bees;
The very clouds, up in the sky,

Their soundless footsteps lightly pick;
And if a stranger asked me why,

I 'd whisper soft, The baby 's sick.'

The dog sits silent in the shade,

The cat sits silent in the sun;
The shadows by the noon time made

Slip past her lightly one by one.
Inside, the clock upon the stair

Subdues her once resonant tick
She seems to know, she seems to care

That something 's wrong and baby 's sick.

We speak in whispers as we go

Upon our household's daily round,
For fear the baby, worshiped so,

Should startled be by shock or sound.
We lay beside its pillow crest

The flowers that loving fingers pick,
And watch it in its troubled rest,

And sob a prayer, for baby 's sick.

It's yellow curls are limp and wet,
The lips we kiss are wide apart,
It's pretty teeth are dry and set,

It's sleep is broke by moan and start;

And we can only watch and pray

While life's hot sands are running quick;

And kneeling by the cradle say,

' Be kind, oh God, for baby 's sick.'


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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Poem Edited: Wednesday, May 9, 2012


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