A child yet unborn,
Is conceived in the mind.
A thought yet unborn,
Has occupied my mind.

The thought then rests,
Feeding on the mind.
Until all strength vests,
The power that words find.

The birth of the child,
Is less pain than pleasure.
As words run wild,
And pages do measure.

The life of the child so small,
Depends on its acceptance.
Amongst readers who make it grow tall,
For then it finds its independence.