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CRADLE-TIME.
181
O happy mother! through your window there
I see you clasp and kiss your little child,—
Its white arms wound amid your tresses fair:
And how, O how shall I be reconciled?
I see you clasp and kiss your little child,—
Its white arms wound amid your tresses fair:
And how, O how shall I be reconciled?
The small, soft hands which tangled down my hair
Are folded from their play forevermore,
The rosy feet which pattered here and there
Have danced their last across this silent floor.
Are folded from their play forevermore,
The rosy feet which pattered here and there
Have danced their last across this silent floor.
The dainty robes are folded smooth and clean,
The half-worn shoes stand empty, side by side;
The basket that she heaped her playthings in
Lies half-filled, as she left it when she died.
The half-worn shoes stand empty, side by side;
The basket that she heaped her playthings in
Lies half-filled, as she left it when she died.
The pot of flowers she carried to and fro,
Or placed among her toys upon the floor,
Thrives undisturbed; though fair the blossoms blow,
No sweet voice coaxes for them any more.
Or placed among her toys upon the floor,
Thrives undisturbed; though fair the blossoms blow,
No sweet voice coaxes for them any more.
These are her finger-marks upon the pane,—
I guard them with a jealous carefulness;
And this dear pictured face still keeps its stain,—
The misty halo of her frequent kiss.
I guard them with a jealous carefulness;
And this dear pictured face still keeps its stain,—
The misty halo of her frequent kiss.
