Gather them grapes from the hanging vine.
There are little feet that are soft and slow,
Follow you whithersoever you go.
There’s a little face at your workshop door,
A little one sits down on your floor:
Holds His hands for the shavings curled,
The soft little hands that have made the world.
Mary calls you: the meal is ready:
You swing the Child to your shoulder steady.
I see your quiet smile as you sit