XXI

5 0 00

XXI

I’ve heard, the moss is spotted red

With drops of that poor infant’s blood:

But kill a new-born infant thus

I do not think she could.

Some say, if to the Pond you go,

And fix on it a steady view,

The shadow of a babe you trace,

A baby and a baby’s face,

And that it looks at you;

Whene’er you look on it, ’tis plain

The baby looks at you again.