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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=478366" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To Ianthe</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=478366" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I love thee, Baby! for thine own sweet sake;<br>Those azure eyes, that faintly dimpled cheek,<br>Thy tender frame, so eloquently weak,<br>Love in the sternest heart of hate might wake;<br>But more when o'er thy fitful slumber bending <br>Thy mother folds thee to her wakeful heart,<br>Whilst love and pity, in her glances blending,<br>All that thy passive eyes can feel impart:<br>More, when some feeble lineaments of her,<br>Who bore thy weight beneath her spotless bosom, <br>As with deep love I read thy face, recur,--<br>More dear art thou, O fair and fragile blossom;<br>Dearest when most thy tender traits express<br>The image of thy mother’s loveliness.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Percy+Bysshe+Shelley">Percy Bysshe Shelley</a></strong></div>

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