There is a secret laughter
That often comes to me,
I envy—no, not one.
By God, I have a son!
SIX WEEKS OLD
He is so small, he does not know
The summer sun, the winter snow;
The spring that ebbs and comes again,
All this is far beyond his ken.
A little world he feels and sees:
His mother's arms, his mother's knees;
He hides his face against her breast,
And does not care to learn the rest.
