POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2345, 8 October 1881, Page 4

POETRY.

TIRED MOTHERS. A little elbow leans upon your knee— Your tired knee that has so much to boar — A child’s dear eyes are looking lovingly From underneath a thatch of tangled hair. Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch Of warm, moist fingers holding youra so tight, You do not prize the blessings overmuch — You almost are too tired to pray to-night. But it is blessedness ! A year ago I did not see it as I do to-day— We are all so dull and thankless, and too slow To catch the sunshine till it slips away. And now it seems surpassing strange to me That while I wore 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 sit down to rest. You miss the elbow on your tired knee— This restless curly head from off your breast, This lisping tongue that chatters constantly ; If from your own the dimpled hands hod slipped, And ne’er would nestle in your palm again, If the white feet into the grave had tripped— I could not blame you for your heartache then.

I wonder that some mothers ever fret At their precious darlings clinging to 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 it patter in my house once more; If I could mend a broken cart to-day, To-morrow 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 birdling from its nest has flown— The little boy I used to kiss is - dead. —“Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper.”