Life is a new-born child
Placed for the first time in one’s arms. Joy is the infant realized
As flesh and blood from one’s own womb. Love is the life-milk nourishing,
As from mother’s breast he suckles, The thrill of his contentment
As against her heart he nestles.
Hope is a whirl of happiness,
The kind that poets sing of.
But poets sing of maids and men.
They don’t know a mother’s love,
A love that reaches down the years And sees this infant grown,
A man who’s honest, proud and strong, With a baby of his own.
I dream each step along the way,
Though yet he doesn’t smile.
I see his first step, dread each fall, Will walk with him each mile.
Hush, my baby, don’t you cry.
You’re in your mother’s arms.
Flesh of my flesh, blood of my veins, Life-milk flowing from my breast, My love is still all round you
As in my womb it was, so rest.