BABY-HOOD.M. W. R.
DDearbird of mine, with strong and untried wing,Ignorant yet of restless fluttering,How long will you be so content to singFor me alone? when will the world be stirredBy notes that even I have scarcely heard,Since you are still only a mocking-bird?My little Clytie with the constant eyesTurned to me ever, though the true sunriseBurns far above me in God’s holy skies,—How can you know, my sweet unconscious one,In the bright days for you but just begun,That I am worthy to be held your sun?My little loyal worshipper, the bloomOf whose fair face makes bright the midnight gloom,Turned ever steadily to my near room,Knowing so well, with instinct fine and true,The one glad door through which I come to you,Caring for naught but what that hides fromview,—How long, dear one, how many precious years,Will this fair chamber where I hush your tearsBe the one Mecca for your hopes and fears?Not long, alas! not long; the mother heartKnows well how quickly she will have to partWith all this wonder;—she who tries each artTo lure him on; the first to coax and praiseEach added grace; then first in sore amazeTo mourn that he has lost his baby ways!
DDearbird of mine, with strong and untried wing,Ignorant yet of restless fluttering,How long will you be so content to singFor me alone? when will the world be stirredBy notes that even I have scarcely heard,Since you are still only a mocking-bird?My little Clytie with the constant eyesTurned to me ever, though the true sunriseBurns far above me in God’s holy skies,—How can you know, my sweet unconscious one,In the bright days for you but just begun,That I am worthy to be held your sun?My little loyal worshipper, the bloomOf whose fair face makes bright the midnight gloom,Turned ever steadily to my near room,Knowing so well, with instinct fine and true,The one glad door through which I come to you,Caring for naught but what that hides fromview,—How long, dear one, how many precious years,Will this fair chamber where I hush your tearsBe the one Mecca for your hopes and fears?Not long, alas! not long; the mother heartKnows well how quickly she will have to partWith all this wonder;—she who tries each artTo lure him on; the first to coax and praiseEach added grace; then first in sore amazeTo mourn that he has lost his baby ways!
DDearbird of mine, with strong and untried wing,Ignorant yet of restless fluttering,How long will you be so content to sing
D
Dearbird of mine, with strong and untried wing,
Ignorant yet of restless fluttering,
How long will you be so content to sing
For me alone? when will the world be stirredBy notes that even I have scarcely heard,Since you are still only a mocking-bird?
For me alone? when will the world be stirred
By notes that even I have scarcely heard,
Since you are still only a mocking-bird?
My little Clytie with the constant eyesTurned to me ever, though the true sunriseBurns far above me in God’s holy skies,—
My little Clytie with the constant eyes
Turned to me ever, though the true sunrise
Burns far above me in God’s holy skies,—
How can you know, my sweet unconscious one,In the bright days for you but just begun,That I am worthy to be held your sun?
How can you know, my sweet unconscious one,
In the bright days for you but just begun,
That I am worthy to be held your sun?
My little loyal worshipper, the bloomOf whose fair face makes bright the midnight gloom,Turned ever steadily to my near room,
My little loyal worshipper, the bloom
Of whose fair face makes bright the midnight gloom,
Turned ever steadily to my near room,
Knowing so well, with instinct fine and true,The one glad door through which I come to you,Caring for naught but what that hides fromview,—
Knowing so well, with instinct fine and true,
The one glad door through which I come to you,
Caring for naught but what that hides fromview,—
How long, dear one, how many precious years,Will this fair chamber where I hush your tearsBe the one Mecca for your hopes and fears?
How long, dear one, how many precious years,
Will this fair chamber where I hush your tears
Be the one Mecca for your hopes and fears?
Not long, alas! not long; the mother heartKnows well how quickly she will have to partWith all this wonder;—she who tries each art
Not long, alas! not long; the mother heart
Knows well how quickly she will have to part
With all this wonder;—she who tries each art
To lure him on; the first to coax and praiseEach added grace; then first in sore amazeTo mourn that he has lost his baby ways!
To lure him on; the first to coax and praise
Each added grace; then first in sore amaze
To mourn that he has lost his baby ways!