May 28, 1887.
I'd rather hear my baby's coo,
That little gurgling coo,
Than rarest song or symphony
Born out of music's mystery
Which once did woo.
I'd rather see my baby's face,
That lovely dimpled face,
Than all the choicest works of art,
Inspired by loving hand or heart,
Contained in space.
I'd rather feel my baby's eyes,
Such deep blue heavenly eyes,
Than all the world's delighted gaze,
Proclaiming with continued praise
My power to rise.
O yes, 'tis true, my baby dear,
My precious baby dear,
Is more than music, art, or fame,
Or anything that bears the name
Of pleasure here.
For in this joy I find a rest,
A soul-inspiring rest,
Beyond the wealth of fame or art,
To satisfy my woman-heart,
Or make it blest.
And as I live in this my gift,
My heaven-sent, blessed gift,
Thoughts such as Mary pondered o'er
Deep in her heart in days of yore
Come to uplift,
And make the claims of motherhood,
Dear sacred motherhood,
Become creation's mountain height,
Whereon e'er shines the beacon-light
Of womanhood.
Chelsea, Mass.
II.