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Poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
If I could clasp my little babe Upon my breast to-night, I would not mind the blowing wind That shrieketh in affright. Oh, my lost babe! my little babe, My babe with dreamful eyes; Thy bed is cold; and night wind bold Shrieks woeful lullabies. My breast is softer than the sod; This room, with lighter hearth, Is better place for thy sweet face Than frozen mother eatrth. Oh, my babe! oh, my lost babe! Oh, babe with waxen hands, I want thee so, I need thee so - Come from thy mystic lands! No love that, like a mother’s fills Each corner of the heart; No loss like hers, that rends, and chills, And tears the soul apart. Oh, babe - my babe, my helpless babe! I miss thy little form. Would I might creep where thou dost sleep, And clasp thee through the storm. I hold thy pillow to my breast, To bring a vague relief; I sing the songs that soothed thy rest - Ah me! no cheating grief. My breathing babe! my sobbing babe! I miss thy plaintive moan, I cannot hear - thou art not near - My little one, my own. Thy father sleeps. He mourns thy loss, But little fathers know The pain that makes a mother toss Through sleepless nights of woe. My clinging babe! my nursing babe! What knows thy father - man - How my breasts miss thy lips’ soft kiss - None but a mother can.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Ella Wheeler Wilcox's other poems:
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