The angels are stooping above your bed;
They weary of trooping with the whimpering dead.
God's laughing in heaven to see you so good.
The Sailing Seven are gay with his mood.
I sigh that I kiss you, for I must own that I will miss you when you are grown.
Regardless of my beliefs about gods and angels and all that (I don't believe in any of it), the part of this poem that I enjoy the most is the "sigh" that many parents let fly when they see their little ones sleeping, knowing that little one will grow and separate in some ways from us.
As I watch Lily grow, however, I don't find myself missing the baby she used to be. She is an articulate young girl with beliefs and stances and feelings of her own, and I enjoy her company just as much as ever.
I suppose parenting is quite different now than in Yeats' time, but I'm proud to know my daughter as an evolving person, and not just as the helpless, peaceful sleeper. Don't get me wrong, there is a charming quality to watching your child sleep, and there is also a caring, nurturing, and protective quality to parenthood that makes us feel powerful and big when our children are small. That feels good.
It also feels good to talk with a growing intelligence who is part of you and separate from you about ideas she's come up with all on her own. That sleeping baby is full of potential, and as I witness the potential coming to fruition, I can't say that I will miss the baby Lily as she grows into the young girl Lily or the woman Lily. I look fondly on those times and that face and those noises she made, and I am amazed at the new conversations and new expressions of love that occur between us now.
