He's so chubby and happy and wonderful,
Dainty and perfectly made,
That when he kicks at the sunbeams there,
Out on the grass in his cradle chair,
Somehow I feel afraid.
We ought to hide him away, I think,
Real beauty was always a bane,
If the gods get to know of his baby wiles,
Of his firm round limbs, or his magic smiles,
They'll want him back again.