Through sunny lengths of prospect sloped

Smooth to the bland futurity.

O, fate surpassing other dooms,

O, hope above all wrecks of time!

O, light that fills all vanquished glooms,

O, silent song o'ermastering rhyme!

I covered either little foot,

I drew the strings about its waist;

Pink as the unshell'd inner fruit,

But barely decent, hardly chaste,

Its nudity had startled me;

But when the petticoats were on,

"I know," I said; "its name shall be

Paul Cyril Athanasius John."

"Why," said my wife, "the child's a girl."

My brain swooned, sick with failing sense;

With all perception in a whirl,

How could I tell the difference?

"Nay," smiled the nurse, "the child's a boy."

And all my soul was soothed to hear

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