FOR E. T. F.

I'd rather hear my baby's coo, That little gurgling coo, Than rarest song or symphony Born out of music's mystery Which once did woo. I'd rather see my baby's face, That lovely dimpled face, Than all the choicest works of art, Inspired by loving hand or heart, Contained in space. I'd rather feel my baby's eyes, Such deep blue heavenly eyes, Than all the world's delighted gaze, Proclaiming with continued praise My power to rise. O yes, 'tis true, my baby dear, My precious baby dear, Is more than music, art, or fame, Or anything that bears the name Of pleasure here. For in this joy I find a rest, A soul-inspiring rest, Beyond the wealth of fame or art, To satisfy my woman-heart, Or make it blest. And as I live in this my gift, My heaven-sent, blessed gift, Thoughts such as Mary pondered o'er Deep in her heart in days of yore Come to uplift, And make the claims of motherhood, Dear sacred motherhood, Become creation's mountain height, Whereon e'er shines the beacon-light Of womanhood.

Would I could see my baby's face, That lovely dimpled face,— O God, how can I bear the pain Of never seeing it again, My baby's face; Of never seeing in those eyes, Those deep blue heavenly eyes, The wondrous glimpses of soul-light Which filled my heart with strange delight And sweet surprise; Of never hearing baby's coo, That little gurgling coo— O God, how can I bear the pain Of never hearing it again, My baby's coo. Alas! "Thy will, not mine, be done." Not mine, but Thine, be done. I can but breathe again this prayer, As in the days of past despair, When peace was won.