Cradle Song

Sleep, sleep, beauty bright,
Dreaming in the joys of night;
Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep
Little sorrows sit and weep.

Sweet babe, in thy face
Soft desires I can trace,
Secret joys and secret smiles,
Little pretty infant wiles.

As thy softest limbs I feel,
Smiles as of the morning steal
O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast
Where thy little heart doth rest.

O the cunning wiles that creep
In thy little heart asleep!
When thy little heart doth wake,
Then the dreadful night shall break.

William Blake

Monosyllabic Monday

Posted by MarsupialMama Monday, 19 December 2011 Labels:

Stoops

(As in stoop-id)

6 comments:

AutismWonderland Says:
19 December 2011 22:26

HA! Cute little tree :)

MarsupialMama Says:
19 December 2011 22:27

Please notice the Hello Kitty cereal box and Smurf happy mea treats. We did have a gorgeous tree up, but had to take everything dow after a day and a half of constant stimming in front of the tree and mass destruction by my Tiny Crazies.

All we had left was a bare tree. That made The Don, Betty and me sad. After The Don sadly said "bells" for the billionth time, mymother brought some cloth baubles and strudry bells and I bought some cheap tinsel and a chintzy star topper!!

Behold, our tree!! **snort**

MarsupialMama Says:
19 December 2011 22:29

**lol** @ AW! Thank you! This way I don't have to scream about things getting broken! O_o

Lizbeth Says:
20 December 2011 01:00

I love it!!!! And I bet the kids love it too!

Flannery Says:
20 December 2011 19:31

I love anything that can get knocked down and broken without Mom having to give two hoots about it!!! It's perfect.

MarsupialMama Says:
20 December 2011 21:56

Yeah, the kids *love* it!! Especially cause they get to try and balance anything on the branches and redecorate it the whole time. And I'm happy cause nothing gets broken, just dented or unstitched!! **lol**

The best thing? I have.a new place to look when a child is down an item of clothing, it's usually hanging off the tree!

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Rss: Top
The Clod and the Pebble

"Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a heaven in hell's despair."

So sung a little Clod of Clay,
Trodden with the cattle's feet,
But a Pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres meet:

"Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a hell in heaven's despite."

William Blake
 
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