Mother and Child

The Wind blew wide the casement, and within— It was the loveliest picture!—a sweet child Lay in its mother’s arms, and drew its life, In pauses, from the fountain,—the white round Part shaded by loose tresses, soft and dark, Concealing, but still showing, the fair realm Of so much rapture, as green shadowing trees With beauty shroud the brooklet. The red lips Were parted, and the cheek upon the breast Lay close, and, like the young leaf of the flower, Wore the same color, rich and warm and fresh:— And such alone are beautiful. Its eye, A full blue gem, most exquisitely set, Looked archly on its world,—the little imp, As if it knew even then that such a wreath Were not for all; and with its playful hands It drew aside the robe that hid its realm, And peeped and laughed aloud, and so it laid Its head upon the shrine of such pure joys, And, laughing, slept. And while it slept, the tears Of the sweet mother fell upon its cheek,— Tears such as fall from April skies, and bring The sunlight after. They were tears of joy; And the true heart of that young mother then Grew lighter, and she sang unconsciously The silliest ballad-song that ever yet Subdued the nursery’s voices, and brought sleep To fold her sabbath wings above its couch.