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OFT in the after days, when thou and I Have fallen from the cope of human view, When, both together, under the sweet sky We sleep beneath the daisies and the dew, Men will recall thy gracious presence bland, Conning the pictured sweetness of thy face; Will pore o'er paintings by thy plastic hand, And vaunt thy skill, and tell thy deeds of grace.
Oh may they then, who crown thee with true bays,
Saying, "What love unto her son she bore!" Make this addition to thy perfect praise,
"Nor ever yet was mother worshiped more!"
So shall I live with thee, and thy dear fame Shall link my love unto thine honored name. Julian Henry Fane
As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
Still gazing at them through the open door,
Nor wholly reassured and comforted
please him more; So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the
hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
'Tis bedtime; say your hymn, and bid
“Good-night; God bless Mamma, Papa, and dear ones
all.” Your half-shut eyes beneath your eyelids
fall, Another minute, you will shut them quite. Yes, I will carry you, put out the light, And tuck you up, although you are so
tall! What will you give me, sleepy one, and call My wages, if I settle you all right? I laid her golden curls upon my arm,
I drew her little feet within my hand,
She nestled to me, by Love's command, Paid me my precious wages — “ Baby's Kiss.”
Francis, Earl of Rosslyn
It was her first sweet child, her heart's de
light: And, though we all foresaw his early doom, We kept the fearful secret out of sight; We saw the canker, but she kiss'd the bloom. And yet it might not be: we could not
brook To vex her happy heart with vague alarms, To blanch with fear her fond intrepid look, Or send a thrill through those encircling
She smil'd upon him, waking or at rest: She could not dream her little child would
die: She toss'd him fondly with an upward eye: She seem'd as buoyant as a summer spray, That dances with a blossom on its breast, Nor knows how soon it will be borne away.
Charles Tennyson Turner