Now sleepily I lie, and wearily, drearily sigh
With heavy eyelids, breaths, and limbs I dream.
I’m floating down the Thames upon a stream
of boats—But hark! Is that? A baby’s cry.
Oh no! I sigh and moan and grip
The bedsheets up around my head.
I really want to stay in bed,
But out I tumble—up!—and trip
Into pajamas waiting there,
Beside the bed, upon the chair,
Where in the dark no need to see
Have I, for it is certainty
That I’m on call each night to feed
My baby girl. I’m all she needs.