In palace gardens, lonely,
A little child will roam
And weep for pleasures only
Found in its humble home.
It is not won by splendour,
Nor bought by costly toys;
To hide from harm on mother’s arm
Makes all its sum of joys.
It must be when the baby
Goes journeying off alone,
Some angel (Mary, may be)
Adopts it for her own.
Yet when a child is taken
Whose mother stays below,
With weeping eyes, through Paradise,
I seem to see it go.
With troops of angels trying
To drive away its fear,
I seem to hear it crying,
“I want my mamma here.”
I do not court the fancy,
It is not based on doubt,
It is a thought that comes unsought
When baby souls sail out.
TO ANOTHER WOMAN’S BABY
I list your prattle, baby boy,
And hear your pattering feet
With feelings more of pain than joy
And thoughts of bitter-sweet.
While touching your soft hands in play
Such passionate longings rise
For my wee boy who strayed away
So soon to Paradise.
You win me with your infant art;
But when our play is o’er,
The empty cradle in my heart
Seems lonelier than before.
Sweet baby boy, you do not guess
How oft mine eyes are dim,
Or that my lingering caress
Is sometimes meant for him.
DIAMONDS
The tears of fallen women turned to ice
By man’s cold pity for repentant vice.