To a Little Invisible Being
Anna Lætitia Barbauld
1743 to 1825
Track 1
Reconstruct the poem by dragging each line into its correct position. Your goal is to reassemble the original poem as accurately as possible. As you move the lines, you'll see whether your arrangement is correct, helping you explore the poem's flow and meaning. You can also print out the jumbled poem to cut up and reassemble in the classroom. Either way, take your time, enjoy the process, and discover how the poet's words come together to create something truly beautiful.
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That free thee living from thy living tomb.
Swarms of new life exulting fill the air,—
Fresh younglings shoot, and opening roses glow!
For thee the nurse prepares her lulling songs,
Like the first accents of thy feeble cry.
How little canst thou guess thy lofty claim
To grasp at all the worlds the Almighty wrought!
And see, the genial season's warmth to share,
Nor wit nor eloquence her heart shall move
Haste, little captive, burst thy prison doors!
Bask in the fondness of a Mother's eye!
But far the most thy anxious parent longs
Germ of new life, whose powers expanding slow
She only asks to lay her burden down,
That her glad arms that burden may resume;
Haste, infant bud of being, haste to blow!
If charmed verse or muttered prayers had power,
She longs to fold to her maternal breast
Senses from objects locked, and mind from thought!
Haste, precious pledge of happy love, to go
What powers lie folded in thy curious frame,—
Nature for thee displays her various stores,
Launch on the living world, and spring to light!
Till thy wished smile thy mother's pangs o'erpay.
Auspicious borne through life's mysterious gate.
With favouring spells to speed thee on thy way,
For many a moon their full perfection wait,—
Come, reap thy rich inheritance of love!
And nature's sharpest pangs her wishes crown,
On thy soft cheek a mother's kiss to lay.
Fed with her life through many a tedious moon.
Part of herself, yet to herself unknown;
To see and to salute the stranger guest,
Anxious I'd bid my beads each passing hour,
Opens her thousand inlets of delight.
The eager matrons count the lingering day;