What does he think of his mother’s eyes?
What does he think of his mother’s hair?
What of the cradle-roof that flies
Forward and backward through the air?
What does he think of his mother’s breast-
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white,
Seeking it ever with fresh delight-
Cup of his life and couch of his rest?
What does he think when her quick embrace
Presses his hand and buries his face
Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell
With a tenderness she can’never tell,
Though she murmur the words Of all the birds
Words she has learned to murmur well?
Now he thinks he’ll go to sleep!
I can see the shadow creep
Over his eyes, in soft eclipse,
Over his brow, and over his lips,
Out to his little finger-tips!
Softly sinking, down he goes!
Down he goes! Down he goes!
See! He is hushed in sweet repose!
(Josiah Gilbert Holland)
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