Mother-Love

For years I've dreamed the sweetest dream:—
A baby's little form
Is cuddled close against my breast,
Its tiny body warm.
Its little hand clings tight to mine,
Confiding to be led;
Its childish prattle, laugh and fun
Quite fill the years ahead.

I catch my breath and face the fact:
No baby's little-form,
Will ever nestle close to me,
Its tiny body warm;
No little hands will cling to mine,
Confiding to be led,
I look into the future—
The lonely years ahead;

My throat contracts, I feel the ache,
The void of mother-love,
No little soul with loving tricks
Was lent me from above;
No baby mouth will form for me
The words of all most sweet,
And "mother,— "father,— lisp to ears
Attuned the sound to greet.