I SAW a mother holding
Her play-worn baby son,
Her pliant arms enfolding
The drooping little one.

Her lips were made of sweetness,
And sweet the eyes above;
With infantile completeness
He yielded to her love.

And I who saw the heaving
Of breast to dimpling cheek,
Have felt, within, the weaving
Of thoughts I cannot speak;

Have felt myself the nestling,
All strengthless, love-enisled;
Have felt myself the mother
Abrood above her child.