THE MOTHER

HERE I lean over you, small son, sleeping

Warm in my arms,

And I con to my heart all your dew-fresh charms, As you lie close, close in my hungry hold

Your hair like a miser’s dream of gold,

And the white rose of your face far fairer,

Finer, and rarer

Than all the flowers in the young year’s keeping; Over lips half parted your low breath creeping

Is sweeter than violets in April grasses;

Though your eyes are fast shut I can see their blue, Splendid and soft as starshine in heaven,

Withall the joyance and wisdom given

From the many souls who have stanchly striven Through the dead years to be strong and true.

Those fine little feet in my worn hands holden Where will they tread?

Valleys of shadow or heights dawn-red? And those silken fingers, O, wee, white son, What valorous deeds shall by them be done In the future that yet so distant is seeming To my fond dreaming?

What words all so musical and golden With starry truth and poesy olden

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