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.