At three a.m. I would prefer her so.
It isn't that I fear her infancy
But sleeping well would help her happily grow.
Alas, the hour waxes and she weeps
First loudly, then (unheard) in louder tone;
I cannot say then (as I'd wish) she sleeps
When all can hear her constant, lowing moan.
I try to give her time to soothe and rest
But she impatient will not sleep once more
Until my faith is put unto the test
By by feeding her. I cannot yet ignore
Her cries, because she is but infant age
And therefore will not calm, but only rage.
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