It is more interesting to bring up my child Than to raise a brood of canaries.
The down of the chicks is shabby; Their gait too is faltering.
But, when I see the firm white body Of my chubby child in the tub,
My mother’s soul is thrilled. In limbs, body, and features,
Unlike that weird look of the canary brood, It is already the image of its parents.
In due time, like them, it will feel and be moved, And give utterance to its thoughts.
A poet, a troubador, a doctor, a scholar, A king or a regent, though he may not be;
A fireman of a big liner, a fisher on the sea, Or even a simple type-setter, he may be;
Yet I would gladly nurse and care for my child Rather than raise a brood of canaries.
