Classic Poem

You sleep upon your mother's breast,
— — Your race begun,
A welcome, long a wished-for Guest,
— — Whose age is One.

A Baby-Boy, you wonder why
— — You cannot run;
You try to talk — how hard you try! —
— — You're only One.

Ere long you won't be such a dunce:
— — You'll eat your bun,
And fly your kite, like folk who once
— — Were only One.

You'll rhyme and woo, and fight and joke,
— — Perhaps you'll pun!
Such feats are never done by folk
— — Before they're One.

Some day, too, you may have your joy,
— — And envy none;
Yes, you, yourself, may own a Boy,
— — Who isn't One.

He'll dance, and laugh, and crow; he'll do
— — As you have done:
(You crown a happy home, though you
— — Are only One.)

But when he's grown shall you be here
— — To share his fun,
And talk of times when he (the Dear!)
— — Was hardly One?

Dear Child, 'tis your poor lot to be
— — My little Son;
I'm glad, though I am old, you see, —
— — While you are One.