Awake

Calm as that moonbeam on the wall,

   Sleep broods on baby's eyes;

Arms, hush'd and still, but pulsing quick,

   Enfold him as he lies;

My brain is full of thronging thoughts,

   Strange passions thrill my breast,

My heart aches with a load of love

   That will not let me rest.

The dim years stand about my bed,

   They neither smile nor weep;

Like softest kisses, on my face

   The little fingers creep.

I hear slow footfalls, in the night

   Of fates upon his track,—

O love, I cannot let you go!

   I cannot keep you back!

Lord, let him shelter in my arms,

   Or take us both to Thine;

Or, if a troublous life must come,

   Make all the trouble mine:

Or let thy sharp swords pierce my heart

   To blunt them for the child,—

What care I, Lord, for stain and shame,

   So he keep undefiled!

Nay, Lord, I know not what I ask—

   I know not how to pray:

Hear Thou the crying mother-soul,

   And not the words I say.

Do Thou what seemeth good to Thee,

   So he be spared from sin;

And, oh! if love can aught avail,

   Let mine be counted in.