In him lies all I hope to be; his splendor shall be mine;
I shall have done man's greatest work if only he is fine.
If some day he shall help the world long after I am dead,
In all that men shall say of him my praises shall be said.
It matters not what I may win of fleeting gold or fame,
My hope of joy depends alone on what my boy shall claim.
My story must be told through him, for him I work and plan,
Man's greatest duty is to be the father of a man.
When a Little Baby Dies
When a little baby dies
And its wee form silent lies,
And its little cheeks seem waxen
And its little hands are still,
Then your soul gives way to treason,
And you cry: "O, God, what reason,
O, what justice and what mercy
Have You shown us by Your will?
"There are, O, so many here
Of the yellow leaf and sere,
Who are anxious, aye, and ready
To respond unto Your call;
Yet You pass them by unheeding,
And You set our hearts to bleeding!
"O," you mutter, "God, how cruel
Do Your vaunted mercies fall!"
Yet some day, in after years,
When Death's angel once more nears,
And the unknown, silent river
Looms as darkly as a pall,
You will hear your baby saying,
"Mamma, come to me, I'm staying
With my arms outstretched to greet you,"
And you'll understand it all.
To the Boy
I have no wish, my little lad,
To climb the towering heights of fame.
I am content to be your dad
And share with you each pleasant game.
I am content to hold your hand
And walk along life's path with you,
And talk of things we understand—
The birds and trees and skies of blue.