For Henry D. B. F., born March 2019

In which the Massachusetts Medievalist realizes it is easy to write poetry when one is basically plagiarizing (with apologies to William Shakespeare and the Chorus that begins Act IV of Henry V):

O now, who will behold
The tired father of this new-come babe
Walking from room to room, from chair to chair,
Let him cry, ‘Praise and glory on his head!’
For forth he goes and cradles all his child,
Bids him good twilight with a sheepish smile
And calls him small one, sweet, and little lamb.
Upon his tired face there is no note
How dread sleeplessness hath enrounded him;
Nor doth he dedicate one jot of noyance
Unto the weary and all-watched night,
But bleary looks and semblant attention
With cheerful singings and incoherence;
That his own wife, glor’ous yet spent as well,
Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks.
The baby’s glow, universal like the sun,
Ruddy softness doth give to each of them,
Welding their bond. Mother and father both
Adore, as may fierce nurturance define,
Their little touch of Harry in the night.

 

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