Explore "From the Italian" by Edith Nesbit on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
AS a little child whom his mother has chidden, / Wrecked in the dark in a storm of weeping, / Sleeps with his tear-stained eyes closed hidden / And, with fists clenched, sobs still in his sleeping,
So in my breast sleeps Love, O white lady, / What does he care though the rest are playing, / With rattles and drums in the woodlands shady, / Happy children, whom Joy takes maying!
Ah, do not wake him, lest you should hear him / Scolding the others, breaking their rattles, / Smashing their drums, when their play comes near him -- / Love who, for me, is a god of battles!