by Angela Thaler, written for infant daughter, Joan, January 1946

My lovely child, we watch you sleep,
I seek his hand, who gave your seed ...
You manifest of feverish lust in May,
we made a choice -- you have to pay.
Now here you are, beginning of a fate.
I ponder of its purpose,
I'm afraid.
So many bloods are in your stream,
so many flames to build the fuzzy dream
that glimmers dimly in your sense:
new element of countless elements.
What we admitted or suppressed,
the dark, the ugly, and the best
it all is you
or could be you.
The world we built in love and trust
is now in ruins, death and dust.
What if some day in desperation
you ask us justify creation?
The foolish, burning optimist
left you a world
which does not exist.
A judge you are to us, my pet.
You smile in dream ... don't know it yet.
A healer too of squabbling fuss,
because where we are two
you are the both of us.
And some day
I will smile within your face
and cry within your eyes.
And on your feet I'll walk upon my grave
and in your warmth I'll press
my body to your closest friend
to take the glorious gift of joy and dread:
a living child like you ... now sleep my pet ...