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1858–1924

II.

Edith Nesbit

Wake, baby dear! The good, glad morning's here; The dove is cooing soft and low, The lark sings loud and clear.

Wake, baby, wake! Long since the day did break, The daisy buds are all uncurled, The sun laughs in the lake.

Wake, baby dear! Thy mother's waiting near, And love, and flowers, and birds, and sun, And all things bright and dear.

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II. · Edith Nesbit · Poetry Cove