I’m not sure where I got the inspiration for this poem, because it’s a little sappier than what I usually write. I think it had something to do with my friend having a baby, and rereading To Kill a Mockingbird. The part where Dill thinks about babies has always fascinated me, and with that new infant fresh on the mind, it naturally expressed itself in a poem (the emotion, I mean). All of a sudden, the thought came to me: “How far is it to Babyland? Oh, it isn’t very far…” Then the poem came. I wrote it a couple years ago. If you think I’m totally wacky… that’s okay. 🙂

“How far is it to Babyland?

For loving and lonesome are we.

Our arms are aching to cradle a child

Whose heart is fresh and starry.

How far is it to Babyland?

See how hollow we are!

How far can it be to Babyland?”

“Oh, it isn’t very far.

You have been to the Hopeful Place,

And passed through Nursery Den.

Now you are here at Beginner’s End.

Go onto Begin Again.

From there, then turn to Endurance and Faith,

‘Til you come to the Trials of Time.

There you must stay until they call,

Which they will, you’ll eventually find.”


“How far is it to Babyland?

For we have traveled so far and long.

Our ears are straining for a Voice

Raised up in squealish song.”

“Very close now to Babyland,

Just turn at the corner of Pain.

Go on for a while (it’s fairly long),

Then you get to Decision of Name.”


“Here we are now at Babyland,

And our tears won’t long keep back.

Please go and pick a child for us;

I feel the world on my back.”

“I’ll go sail to the Island;

Silver sails shall take me there.

I’ll walk among fog-lilies,

For a baby, bright and fair.

It is quiet, so be silent.

It is peace, so do not speak.

It is strong, for Lily Babies

Are not meant for the weak.

But a Lily Baby you must have,

For they’re lovely and sublime.

I’ll go and pick a Lily,

Who shall stand the test of Time.”

He’s walking in the garden,

He’s glancing in the grove.

Little forms lie resting

Tangled in the vines they wove.

Gathered in his arms,

Softly sniffling is the child.

Sailing on a silver ship,

I won’t deny they smiled.


New parents gather, breathing:

Baby-scent shall not soon cloy.

It is not far to Babyland

In the silence of your joy.

Like it? Comment below! Thanks, and have a wonderful day.

Original poem by KiWi. Copyright 2017

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