THE little ones cling to the mother, With kisses that softly fall, But somehow the troublesome baby Is nearest her heart of all,— Ill and fretful and small, But dearest to mother of all. The neighbors wonder and pity, Hearing its querulous cry. "She is losing her youth and beauty," Say friends as they pass her by: "Well were the babe to die, And the mother have rest," they sigh. But over the wee white cradle, Her soft eyes full of prayer, Bendeth the weary mother; And never was face so fair, Pale, and tired with care,— But the glory of love is there! Rosy and round and dimpled, Dewy with childish sleep, She tucks in her other darlings, Whom angels watch and keep. Ah, if a darker angel Anear this treasure creep! Bless thee, beautiful mother! Thy heart hath a place for all,— Room for the joys and the sorrows, However fast they fall; Room for the baby small, That may love thee better than all. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BUGLER'S FIRST COMMUNION by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS THE RAINY DAY by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW OF MAN'S MORTALITY by SIMON WASTELL SHEEP AT MOUNTAIN PASTURE by MARGARET CARROLL BRADY EDGE OF THE DAY by BURL BREDON THE WEE KNITTER by ABBIE FARWELL BROWN AN ELECTION BALLAD by ROBERT BURNS MASQUE AT THE MARRIAGE OF THE EARL OF SOMERSET: CHORUS (3) by THOMAS CAMPION |