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...TOMMY'S DEAD by SYDNEY THOMPSON DOBELL THE RAGGEDY MAN by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 32 by PHILIP SIDNEY A CRADLE SONG by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS TO HAFIZ by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 14. AL-MUZAWWIR by EDWIN ARNOLD PARAPHRASE; FAILURE AND SUCCESS by LEVI BISHOP |