The Starved
W. H. Davies
1871 to 1940
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My little Lamb, what is amiss?
If there was in mother's kiss,
You would not look as white this.
The wolf of Hunger, it is he
That away thy milk from me,
And I have much do for thee.
If thou couldst live on love, know
No babe in all the land could show
rosy cheeks and louder crow.
Thy father's dead, Alas thee:
I cannot keep this wolf from me,
That thy milk so bold and free.
If thy dear lived, he'd drive
Away this beast with whom I strive,
And thou, my pretty Lamb, wouldst thrive.
Ah, my babe, my love's so great
I'd swallow common rags meat—
If they could make milk rich and sweet.
little Lamb, what is amiss?
Come, I must wake with a kiss,
For Death would own a sleep this.