The Poet And The Baby

How’s a man to write a sonnet,can you tell, 

How’s he going to weave the dim,poetic spell, 

When a-toddling on the floor

Is the muse he must adore,

And this muse he loves,not wisely.but too well?

Now,to write a sonnet,every one allows,

One must always be as quiet as a mouse,

But to write one seems to me

Quite superfluous to be,

When you’ve got a little sonnet in the house.

Just a dainty little poem,true and fine,

That’s is full of love and life in every line

,

Earmest,delicate,and sweet,

Altogether so complete

That l wonder what the use writting mine.