Select Poetry.

Thames Star, Volume XX, Issue 6138, 1 December 1888, Page 1

Select Poetry.

TIBED MOTHEBB.

A little elbow leans npon your knee—? Yonr tired knee that baa so much to bear ; A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly From underneath a thatch of tangled hair. Perhaps yon do not heed the velvet touch Of warm,moist fingers holding-yon so tight; You did not prise the blessing over-roach, You are almost too tired to pray to-night. Bnfc is it blessedness P A year ago , I did not see as I do to-day — We are so dull and thankless; and too slow To catch the Bnnshine till it slips away. And now it seems surpassing strange to me That, while I wore the badge of motherhood, I did not kiss more oft and tenderly The little child that brought me only good And if, some night, when yon sit down to rest, , You miss his elbow from your tired knee; This restless curling head from off your breast; -This lisping tongue that chatters constantly; If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped, And ne'er would nestle in your palm again j If the white feet into their grave had tripped, I could not blame you for your heartache then ! I wonder so that mothers ever fret At little children clinging to their gown; Or that the footprints when the days are wet, Are ever black enough to make them frown. If I could find a little muddy boot, Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber floor, If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, And hear its patter in my home once more. If I could mend a broken cart to-day, To-morrow make a kite to reach the skyThere is no woman in God's world wonld say She was more blissfully content than I. But ah ! the dainty pillow next my own Is never rumpled by a shining head; My singing birdling from its nest has flowu, The little boy I used to kiss is dead!