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...LIKE A BULRUSH by MARIANNE MOORE SPRING'S NEBRASKA by KAREN SWENSON PISGAH SIGHTS by ROBERT BROWNING THE WHITE MAN'S BURDEN by RUDYARD KIPLING RIDDLE: TEETH AND GUMS by MOTHER GOOSE STEEL MILL by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE CARPERS (AN ASPECT) by WILLIAM ROSE BENET SONGS OF THE SEA CHILDREN: 33 by BLISS CARMAN THE PARLIAMENT OF FOWLS [PARLEMENT OF FOULES] by GEOFFREY CHAUCER |