Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 1, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/199

147 Suck, little babe, oh suck again!

It cools my blood; it cools my brain;

Thy lips I feel them, baby! they

Draw from my heart the pain away.

Oh! press me with thy little hand;

It loosens something at my chest;

About that tight and deadly band

I feel thy little fingers press'd.

The breeze I see is in the tree;

It comes to cool my babe and me.

Oh! love me, love me, little boy!

Thou art thy mother's only joy;

And do not dread the waves below,

When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go;

The high crag cannot work me harm,

Nor leaping torrents when they howl;

The babe I carry on my arm,

He saves for me my precious soul;

Then happy lie, for blest am I;

Without me my sweet babe would die.