 | The high-top sweeting And Other Poems |  |
115
ALWAYS A BABY.
She sat in the summer gloaming
And talked of the days long past,—
A woman, whose feet were nearing
Life's sunset shadows fast;
And talked of the days long past,—
A woman, whose feet were nearing
Life's sunset shadows fast;
A woman whose form was bending
Under the weight of years,
Whom seventy summers and winters
Had touched with their smiles and tears.
Under the weight of years,
Whom seventy summers and winters
Had touched with their smiles and tears.
Her life had been dimmed by sorrows,
And changeful with lights and shades,
Yet her heart was fresh with the fountain
Of a youth that never fades.
And changeful with lights and shades,
Yet her heart was fresh with the fountain
Of a youth that never fades.
She spoke of the cares of a mother,
Of the labor of heart and hand
Which a group of restless children
From her patient love demand;
Of the labor of heart and hand
Which a group of restless children
From her patient love demand;
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Of the wide fair circle of faces
Which around her hearth had met;
Or the group of men and women
Who called her “mother” yet,—
Which around her hearth had met;
Or the group of men and women
Who called her “mother” yet,—
Some of them bold and busy
In the world's engrossing maze,
While others remained beside her
To comfort her waning days.
In the world's engrossing maze,
While others remained beside her
To comfort her waning days.
And then she spoke of her first-born,
With a mother's tender praise,—
A baby, whose little lifetime
Was reckoned by weeks and days.
With a mother's tender praise,—
A baby, whose little lifetime
Was reckoned by weeks and days.
But her lashes were bright with tear-drops,
And her voice was broken and low,
As she spoke of the baby that perished
Full fifty years ago.
And her voice was broken and low,
As she spoke of the baby that perished
Full fifty years ago.
“Were he living,” she murmured,
As a slow tear downward rolled,
“He would be gray and time-worn,
More than fifty years old.
As a slow tear downward rolled,
“He would be gray and time-worn,
More than fifty years old.
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“Ah, although my living children
Are loving and fair and brave,
My heart still yearns for my first-born,
Asleep in his tiny grave,
Are loving and fair and brave,
My heart still yearns for my first-born,
Asleep in his tiny grave,
“Over whose peaceful pillow
So many seasons have rolled.
Ah, he would be, were he living,
More than fifty years old!
So many seasons have rolled.
Ah, he would be, were he living,
More than fifty years old!
“I think of him often and often,
For he, of all my brood,
Stays always a rosy infant,
Immortal in babyhood.”
For he, of all my brood,
Stays always a rosy infant,
Immortal in babyhood.”
O wondrous love of the mother,
Whose marvellous strength and truth
Transfigured her face with a beauty
Sweeter than that of youth!
Whose marvellous strength and truth
Transfigured her face with a beauty
Sweeter than that of youth!
O constant heart of the mother,
So tenderly touched to tears,
After the joys and sorrows
And changes of fifty years!
So tenderly touched to tears,
After the joys and sorrows
And changes of fifty years!
| The high-top sweeting And Other Poems | |