FEBRUARY ELEVENTH
I wait for my story—the birds cannot sing it,
Not one as he sits on his tree;
The bells can not ring it, but long years oh, bring it
Such as I wish it to be.
Jean Ingelow
FEBRUARY TWELFTH
Thou who didst not erst deny
The mother-joy to Mary mild,
Blessed in the blessed child.
Which hearkened in meek babyhood
Her cradle hymn, albeit used
To all that music interfused
In breasts of angels high and good.
Mrs. Browning
FEBRUARY THIRTEENTH
So sits the while at home the mother well content.
Robert Louis Stevenson
FEBRUARY FOURTEENTH
What use to me the gold and silver hoard?
What use to me the gems most rich and rare?
Brighter by far—aye, bright beyond compare,
The joys my children to my heart afford.
From the Japanese
FEBRUARY FIFTEENTH
Never to living ears came sweeter sounds
Than when I heard thee, by our own fireside
First uttering, without words, a natural tune
While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy
Sing at thy mother's breast.
Wordsworth