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<h2>His Wife and Boy.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> LOVE is a myth which men create from vapors of the heart and brain, Thus far the poet grave did get, then from a smile could not refrain, Someone was singing, he could hear Each word so low and sweet and clear, “By Baby Bunting!  Papa’s gone a-hunting,  To get a little rabbit skin  To wrap the Baby-Bunting in.” </div> <div class="stanza"> Right well he knew that picture fair Might set a stoic’s heart aglow, For it was such a bonnie pair, So gently rocking to and fro. The old song was a foolish thing, Yet it seemed good to hear her sing, “By Baby Bunting!  Papa’s gone a-hunting,  To get a little rabbit-skin  To wrap his Baby-Bunting in.” </div> <div class="stanza"> The sunshine would be creeping down Upon her hair of golden brown,{150} And farther yet that it might peep At her awake, at him asleep, And both were his to have and hold, How runs the foolish song so old? “By Baby-Bunting!  Papa’s gone a-hunting  To get a little rabbit-skin  To wrap the Baby-Bunting in.” </div> <div class="stanza"> But he must to his hunting go, A cloak this pen of his must win As soft as silk and white as snow, To wrap the Baby-Bunting in. Strange that his poem deep and strong Should wait upon a nursery song, “By Baby-Bunting!  Papa’s gone a hunting,  To get a little rabbit skin  To wrap the Baby-Bunting in.” </div> <div class="stanza"> Love is a myth that men create From vapors of the heart and brain, O pen, I fear you lied of late! Hark, softly rings the old refrain! “By Baby-Bunting!  Papa’s gone a-hunting,  To get a little rabbit-skin  To wrap the Baby-Bunting in.”{151} </div> </div></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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