Soft and Low
Mother, crooning soft and low,
Let not all thy fancies go,
Like swift birds, to the blue skies
Of thy darling's happy eyes.
Count thy baby's curls for beads,
As a sweet saint intercedes;
But on some fair ringlet's gold
Let a tender prayer be told
For the mother, all alone,
Who for singing maketh moan,
Who doth ever vainly seek
Dimpled arms and velvet cheek.
Mary Frances Butts
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