Classic Poem

You have a son. Your work of art.
Fruit of your love. Cause of your pain.
Child of your thought. Blood of your heart.
Travail of spirit, body, brain.

And there he lies upon your breast,
Most helpless of all living things;
What he loves, is what you love best —
How will it be when he grows wings?

Only from you to take and take
Is all your love of him demands;
Of such dependence can you make
Love that on higher footing stands?

O, close the cord that holds you still:
How slowly will the coil unroll!
Each year it longer grows, until
It snaps, and there is born — his soul.

What then? Will you fall back and sigh,
And call for honour and respect,
And round his ankles fondly tie
Cord that hangs loose through your neglect?

Will you of him full-grown require
The ungrown love of helpless need,
And ashes of extinguished fire
With painful memory strive to feed?

Or will you gather all your strength
This new-made miracle to grasp:
Your little helpless thing at length
Can hold you in his stronger clasp?

And woo him to you with your mind,
Love born of understanding rare:
Until, as night draws on, you find
You have a lover for your care.