The moment my oldest child was born, I reached for an anthology of Romantic poetry that I have owned for decades and began reading. “Sweet joy befall thee,” I said to my baby, through tears, bestowing a blessing with the words of William Blake. The benediction was unplanned. I had brought the book to the hospital for myself, along with a memoir by Shirley Jackson and a pile of well-worn novels, because I’d imagined that I would want to be surrounded by my favorite writers at a time of such magnitude. But as soon as my squirming newborn was placed on my chest, I was overcome by the desire not to keep these works to myself, but to share my love of literature with my baby.
