Classic Poem

The big-eyed baby, just across the way,
Longs for the moon and reaches out to clasp it;
He lunges at the crescent cold and gray,
And waxes wroth to find he cannot grasp it.

Be hushed, O babe, and give thy grief a rest;
Better a thousand times for thee to ponder
Upon the lacteal wealth of mother's breast
Than reach for that vain Milky Way up yonder.

Yet am I like this man of recent birth
That lets a foolish disappointment fret it;
Scorning the sky, I'm reaching for the earth,
And grunt and groan because I do not get it.