Classic Poem

A LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee,
— Your tired knee that has so much to bear;
A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly
— From underneath a thatch of tangled hair.
Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch
— Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight;
You do not prize this blessing overmuch, —
— You almost are too tired to pray to-night.

But it is blessedness! A year ago
— I did not see it as I do to day, —
We are so dull and thankless; and too slow
— To catch the sunshine till it slips away.
And now it seems surpassing strange to me
— That, while I wore the badge of motherhood,
I did not kiss more oft and tenderly
— The little child that brought me only good.

And if some night when you sit down to rest,
— You miss this elbow from your tired knee, —
This restless, curling head from off your breast, —
— This lisping tongue that chatters constantly;
If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped,
— And ne'er would nestle in your palm again;
If the white feet into their grave had tripped,
— I could not blame you for your heartache then!

I wonder so that mothers ever fret
— At little children clinging to their gown;
Or that the footprints, when the days are wet,
— Are ever black enough to make them frown.
If I could find a little muddy boot,
— Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber-floor, —
If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot,
— And hear its patter in my house once more, —

If I could mend a broken cart to-day,
— To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky,
There is no woman in God's world could say
— She was more blissfully content than I.
But ah! the dainty pillow next my own
— Is never rumpled by a shining head;
My singing birdling from its nest has flown,
— The little boy I used to kiss is dead.