And then, perchance
(O anodyne for all dark-memoried days!),
To feel the touch of little clinging hands
And hold your child and mine close on this breast,
And croon it songs and tunes quite meaningless
Unto the bosom where no milk has been,
And fonder than the poolside flutings low
Of dreaming frogs to their Arcadian Pan.
There had I borne to you a sailor-folk,
A tawny-haired swart brood of boys, as brave