"You scarcely are a mother, at that rate. Only one child!" The blithe soul pitied loud. And doubtless she, amid her household crowd, When one brings care in another's fortunate; When one fares forth another's at her gate. Yea, were her first-born folded in his shroud, Not with a whole despair would she be bowed, She has more sons to make her heart elate. Many to love her singly, mother theirs, To give her the dear love of being their need, To storm her lap by turns and claim their kiss, To kneel around her at their bed-time prayers; Many to grow her comrades! Some have this. Yet I, I do not envy them indeed. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CORNUCOPIA OF RED AND GREEN COMFITS by AMY LOWELL NAPOLEON by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE THE END OF THE EPISODE by THOMAS HARDY THE PALM TREE by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS THIRTEEN WAYS OF LOOKING AT A BLACKBIRD by WALLACE STEVENS THE COW by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON THE IDEAL GENERAL by ARCHILOCHUS THREE SONGS OF LOVE (CHINESE FASHION): 3. LOVE CALL by WILLIAM A. BEATTY |