IN the days of childish troubles, when our little world was darkened With the clouds that mean such gloomy times when on young hearts they rest, There was one unfailing refuge, one sure fount of consolation, And all our troubles faded, sobbed out on our mother's breast. Oh, that refuge of our childhood! Oh, that love which never faltered! To whose sympathies so tender not a sorrow was too small For the kindest understanding, for the fondest of consoling, Till the clouds began to roll away, and love to lighten all. When a man keeps fresh within him that touch of a child's dependence, All his nature feels the power of its softening alloy: And more human to his fellows, more responsive to all feeling, Is the man who deep down in his heart is still "a mother's boy." |