Shall those lips speak in the years on—coming? 
     
     0, child of mine, with waxen brow, 
     
    

    
     Surely your words of that dim to-morrow 
     
     Rapture and power and grace must borrow 
     
     From the poignant love and holy sorrow 
     
    

    
     Of the heart that shrines and cradles you now! 
     
    
   
   
    
     Some bitter day you will love another, 
     
    

    
     To her will bear 
     
    

    
     Love—gifts and woo her . . . then must I share 
     
    

    
     You and your tenderness! Now you are mine 
     
    

    
     From your feet to your hair so golden and fine, 
     
    

    
     And your crumpled finger—tips . . . mine com- 
     
     pletely, 
     
    

    
     Wholly and sweetly; 
     
    

    
     Mine with kisses deep to smother, 
     
    

    
     No one so near to you now as your mother! 
     
    

    
     Others may hear your words of beauty, 
     
    

    
     But your precious silence is mine alone; 
     
    

    
     Here in my arms I have enrolled you, 
     
    

    
     Away from the grasping world I fold you, 
     
    

    
     Flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone! 
     
    
   
   
    
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