She Walks in Beauty of the Night

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

I don't think Lord Byron was talking about a baby
when he wrote this poem, but I thought it fit!
Here is one by Shakespeare that might also work:

I grant I never saw a Goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare.
As any she belied with false compare.