I am the faith of little lives That make my thoughts their own. The spoken word, perhaps half heard, Rests not with me alone, But into circles widening ever shall have grown. I am the joy of little hearts, And who more proud should be? They love to rest upon my breast And stand beside my knee: Like cherubs of the masters old, they turn their eyes to me. I am the hope of little souls, And who should be more brave? From reefs ahead that all hearts dread The mother-love must save, For else my little ones may sink beneath life's stormy wave. |