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 loving touch
Of warm, moist fingers holding yours so tight;
You do not prize this blessing over much,
You almost are too tired to pray, tonight!
But it is blessedness! A year ago
I did not see it as I do today;—
We are so dull and thankless, and too slow
To catch the sunshine till it slip away.
And now it seems surpassing strange to me,
That while I bore 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 sat down to rest,
You missed the elbow from your tired knee,
The restless curling head from off your breast,
The 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 tipped,
I could not blame you for your heart-ache then.
I wonder so that mothers ever fret
At little children clinging at 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 today,
Tomorrow 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 bridling from its nest is flown;
The little boy I used to kiss is dead!