MOTHER, crooning soft and low, Let not all thy fancies go, Like swift birds, to the blue skies Of thy darling's happy eyes. Count thy baby's curls for beads, As a sweet saint intercedes; But on some fair ringlet's gold Let a tender prayer be told For the mother, all alone, Who for singing maketh moan, Who doth ever vainly seek Dimpled arms and velvet cheek. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CORAL GROVE by JAMES GATES PERCIVAL TALL NETTLES by PHILIP EDWARD THOMAS RIVER OF SEVILLE by AL-KUTANDI BOUGHT WITH A PRICE by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON PSALM 119 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE THE UNKNOWN WAY by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT TANNHAUSER; OR, THE BATTLE OF THE BARDS by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON MASQUE AT THE MARRIAGE OF THE EARL OF SOMERSET: FIRST SQUIRE (2) by THOMAS CAMPION ELEGY UPON DOCTOR CHADDERTON, THE FIRST MASTER OF EMANUEL COLLEGE by JOHN CLEVELAND |