Intense and Terrible

Intense and terrible, I think, must be the loneliness 
Of infants—look at all
The Teddy-bears clasped in slumber in slatted cribs 
Painted pale-blue or pink.
And all the Easter Bunnies, dirty and disreputable, that deface 
The white pillow and the sterile, immaculate, sunny, turning
     pleasantly in space,
Dainty abode of Baby—try to replace them
With new ones, come Easter again, fluffy and white, and with a 
     different smell;
Release with gentle force from the horrified embrace,
That hugs until the stitches give and the stuffing shows,
His only link with a life of his own, the only thing he really 
     knows...
Try to sneak it out of sight.
If you wish to hear anger yell glorious
From air-filled lungs through a throat unthrottled
By what the neighbours will say;
If you wish to witness a human countenance contorted 
And convulsed and crumpled by helpless grief and despair, 
Then stand beside the slatted crib and say There, there, and
     take the toy away.

Pink and pale-blue look well
In a nursery. And for the most part Baby is really good: 
He gurgles, he whimpers, he tries to get his toe to his mouth; 
     he slobbers his food
Dreamily—cereals and vegetable juices onto his bib: 
He behaves as he should.

But do not for a moment believe he has forgotten Blackness;
     nor the deep
Easy swell; nor his thwarted
Design to remain for ever there;
Nor the crimson betrayal of his birth into a yellow glare.
The pictures painted on the inner eyelids of infants just before 
     they sleep,
Are not in pastel.