“Where the pillow is soft and the rest is long, And mother will croon you a slumber-song,
“A slumber-song that will charm your eyes To a sleep that never in earth-song lies!
“The loves of earth your being can spare, But never the grave, for mother is there.”
I nestled him soft to my throbbing breast, And stole me back to my long, long rest.
And here I lie with him under the stars, Dead to earth, its peace and its wars;
Dead to its hates, its hopes, and its harms, So long as he cradles up soft in my arms.
And heaven may open its shimmering doors, And saints make music on pearly floors,
And hell may yawn to its infinite sea, But they never can take my baby from me.
For so much a part of my soul he hath grown That God doth know of it high on His throne.
And here I lie with him under the flowers That sun-winds rock through the billowy hours,