The Poet And The Baby

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by Paul Laurence Dunbar

How’s a man to write a sonnet, can you
tell,--
How’s he going to weave the dim, poetic
spell,--
When a-todling on the floor
Is the muse he must adore,
And this muse he loves, not wisely, but too
well?

Now, to write a sonnet, every one allows,
One must always be as quiet as a mouse;
But to write one seems to me
Quite superfluous to be,
When you’ve got a little sonnet in the house.

Just a dainty little poem, true and fine,
That is full of love and life in every line,
Earnest, delicate, and sweet,
Altogether so complete
That I wonder what’s the use of writing mine.

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