Intense and terrible, I think, must be the loneliness Of infants--look at all The Teddy-bears clasped in slumber in slatted cribs Painted pale-blue or pink. And all the Easter Bunnies, dirty and disreputable, that deface The white pillow and the sterile, immaculate, sunny, turning pleasantly in space, Dainty abode of Baby--try to replace them With new ones, come Easter again, fluffy and white, and with a different smell; Release with gentle force from the horrified embrace, That hugs until the stitches give and the stuffing shows, His only link with a life of his own, the only thing he really knows. . . Try to sneak it out of sight. If you wish to hear anger yell glorious From air-filled lungs through a throat unthrottled By what the neighbours will say; If you wish to witness a human countenance contorted And convulsed and crumpled by helpless grief and despair, Then stand beside the slatted crib and say There, there, and take the toy away. Pink and pale-blue look well In a nursery. And for the most part Baby is really good: He gurgles, he whimpers, he tries to get his toe to his mouth; he slobbers his food Dreamily--cereal and vegetable juices--onto his bib: He behaves as he should. But do not for a moment believe he has forgotten Blackness: nor the deep Easy swell; nor his thwarted Design to remain for ever there; Nor the crimson betrayal of his birth into a yellow glare. The pictures painted on the inner eyelids of infants just before they sleep, Are not pastel.