An Empty Glass.
208
The immemorial instinct of my sex,
The mother in me never roused before,
Awakes and cries to hold that child, to feel
His life spring- freshly from my own, and see
His eyes look at me while the little mouth
Clings to my breast. Oh, just to bear his child!
To link our lives with this so sweet a chain,
To watch the current of it mingled deep
Pass onward through the years and cheat decay
By sending through the ages still to come
Our vital spark, and so, incorporate,
Live on for ever. Ah! to hold his child,
How proud he'll be to think it is his own!
And when the day is done and he comes home
I'll hear his step quick ringing through the hall,
And then the sharp unlatching of the door,
So headlong, so impetuous, and he'll snatch
Us close within his arm—the boy and me—
And I shall feel our heart-beats trebled there.
He'll stoop his head, I know just how, and press
His lips upon the nestling downy head,
And T shall thrill through every fibre—thrill
And laugh up in his eyes. Oh God in Heaven!
The child will be her child, not mine, not mine.
Her breast will feel that little clinging mouth,
Her ear will know his step, and she will hear
The mother in me never roused before,
Awakes and cries to hold that child, to feel
His life spring- freshly from my own, and see
His eyes look at me while the little mouth
Clings to my breast. Oh, just to bear his child!
To link our lives with this so sweet a chain,
To watch the current of it mingled deep
Pass onward through the years and cheat decay
By sending through the ages still to come
Our vital spark, and so, incorporate,
Live on for ever. Ah! to hold his child,
How proud he'll be to think it is his own!
And when the day is done and he comes home
I'll hear his step quick ringing through the hall,
And then the sharp unlatching of the door,
So headlong, so impetuous, and he'll snatch
Us close within his arm—the boy and me—
And I shall feel our heart-beats trebled there.
He'll stoop his head, I know just how, and press
His lips upon the nestling downy head,
And T shall thrill through every fibre—thrill
And laugh up in his eyes. Oh God in Heaven!
The child will be her child, not mine, not mine.
Her breast will feel that little clinging mouth,
Her ear will know his step, and she will hear
