Classic Poem

When the life-thread was spun
?From the blood in her breast,
She look'd on her Son,
?Smiled, and rock'd him to rest. . . .
How swift the Hours run
?From the East to the West!
Erect stood the Son,
?And the Mother was blest.
Of all Life had won
?Love like his seem'd the best:
He was still the dear Son
?She had rock'd on her breast!
Yet lo! all is done!
?('Twas, O God, Thy behest)
In his turn the gray Son
?Rocks the Mother to rest!
All is o'er, ere begun!. . . .
?O my dearest and best,
Sleep in peace,—till thy Son
?Creepeth down to thy breast!