Living
On an Infant's Hand
From Poems (1851), vol. II: Poems Referring to the Period of Infancy and Childhood
What is an infant but a germ,
Prophetic of a distant term?
Whose present claim of love consists
In that great power that Nature twists
With the fine thread of imbecillity,
Motion of infinite tranquillity.
Joy that is not for this or that,
Nor like the restless joy of gnat.
Or midge in moty beam so rife.
Whose day of pleasure is its life ;
But joy that by its quiet being
Is witness of a law foreseeing
All joy and sorrow that may hap
To the wee sleeper in the mother's lap.
Such joy, I ween, is ever creeping
On every nerve of baby sleeping :
But, baby waking, longest lingers
In tiny hand and tiny fingers.
Much teaching that it ne'er did learn,
Like lamp beside sepulchral urn,
Revealing by felicity,
Foretelling by simplicity,
And preaching by its sudden cries,
Alone with God the baby lies.
How hard it holds ! — how tight the clasp !
Ah, how intense the infant grasp !
Electric from the ruling brain
Descends the soul to stir and strain
That wondrous instrument, the hand,
By which we learn to understand ;
How fair, how small, how white and pure,
Its own most perfect miniature !
The baby-hand that is so wee,
And yet is all it is to be ;
Unweeting what it has to do.
Yet to its destined purpose true.
The fingers four, of varied length,
That join or vie their little strength ;
The pigmy thumb, the onyx nail.
The violet vein so blue and pale ;
The branchy lines where Gipsy eld
Had all the course of life beheld :
All, to its little finger's tip,
Of Nature's choicest workmanship.
Their task, their fate, we hardly guess, —
But, oh, may it be happiness !
Not always leisure, always play,
But worky-day and holy-day ;
With holy Sabbaths interspersed.
And not the busiest day the worst.
Not doom'd, with needle or with pen,
To drudge for o'er-exacting men.
Nor any way to toil for lucre
At frown of he or she rebuker ;
But still affectionate and free
Their never weary housewifery.
Blest lot be thine, my nestling dove.
Never to work except in love ;
And God protect thy little hand
From task imposed by unbeloved command !
Cite this poem
MLA
Coleridge, Hartley. “On an Infant's Hand.” Poetry Codex, poetrycodex.com/poem/coleridge_h/191/.
Chicago
Coleridge, Hartley. “On an Infant's Hand.” Poetry Codex. https://poetrycodex.com/poem/coleridge_h/191/.
Read this poem with the Codex →