You leaned your cheek to touch the masses soft,
The while you crooned some drowsy lullaby.
How often when the sun was dawning red
You bent above him in the early ray,
And from that glory round the baby head
You drew your light for all the weary day.
And now—you start—the front door gives a slam—
The hall resounds with little, hurrying feet,
He climbs upon your knee—the wee, shorn lamb,—
And dries your tears with kisses, warm and sweet.