Ethelwyn Wetherald

Mother and Child

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I saw a mother holding
Her play-worn baby son,
Her pliant arms enfolding
The drooping little one.
Her lips were made of sweetness,
And sweet the eyes above;
With infantile completeness
He yielded to her love.
And I who saw the heaving
Of breast to dimpling cheek,
Have felt, within, the weaving
Of thoughts I cannot speak;
Have felt myself the nestling,
All strengthless, love-ensiled;
Have felt myself the mother
Abrood above her child.

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