My Boy

I have a little boy at home, A pretty little son; I think sometimes the world is mine In him, my only one.

But seldom, seldom do I see My child in heaven’s light; I find him always fast asleep... I see him but at night.

Ere dawn my labor drives me forth; ’Tis night when I am free; A stranger am I to my child; And strange my child to me.

I come in darkness to my home, With weariness and—pay; My pallid wife, she waits to tell The things he learned to say.

How plain and prettily he asked: “Dear mamma, when’s ‘Tonight’? O when will come my dear papa And bring a penny bright?”

I hear her words—I hasten out— This moment must it be!— The father-love flames in my breast: My child must look at me!

I stand beside the tiny cot, And look, and list, and—ah! A dream-thought moves the baby-lips: “O, where is my papa!”

I kiss and kiss the shut blue eyes; I kiss them not in vain. They open,—O they see me then! And straightway close again.

“Here’s your papa, my precious one;— A penny for you!”—ah! A dream still moves the baby-lips: “O, where is my papa!”

And I—I think in bitterness And disappointment sore; “Some day you will awake, my child, To find me nevermore.”