Emily Dickinson Yevgeny Yevtushenko William Butler Yeats John Updike Rainer Maria Rilke Gwendolyn Brooks

Baby Song From the private ease of Mother's womb I fall into the lighted room. Why don't they simply put me back Where it is warm and wet and black? But one thing follows on another. Things are different inside Mother. Padded and jolly I would ride The perfect comfort of her inside. They tuck me in a rustling bed-- I lie there, raging, small, and red. I may sleep soon, I may forget, But I won't forget that I regret. --Thom Gunn

Sara Booth Mary Oliver William Blake e. e. cummings Thom Gunn

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