[from Collected Works, T.E.Brown]


IN a fair garden
I saw a mother playing with her child,
And, with that chance beguiled,
I could not choose but look
How she did seem to harden
His little soul to brook
Her absence—reconciled
With after boon of kisses,
And sweet irrational blisses.
For she would hide
With loveliest grace
Of seeming craft
Till he was ware of none beside
Himself upon the place ;—
And then he laughed,
And then he stood a space
Disturbed, his face
Prepared for tears;
And half-acknowledged fears
Met would-he courage, balancing
His heart upon the spring
Of flight—till, waxing stout,
He gulped the doubt.
So up the pleached alley
Full swift he ran
Whence she,
Not long delayed,
Rushed forth with joyous sally
Upon her little man.
Then was it good to see
How each to other made
A pretty rapture of discovery.

Blest child ! blest mother ! blest the truth ye taught—
God seeketh us, and yet He would be sought.


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Any comments, errors or omissions gratefully received The Editor
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