Элла Уилкокс (Ella Wheeler Wilcox)

Mother’s Loss

If I could clasp my little babe
Upon my breast to-night, 
I would not mind the blowing wind
That shrieketh in affright.
Oh, my lost babe! my little babe, 
My babe with dreamful eyes; 
Thy bed is cold; and night wind bold
Shrieks woeful lullabies.

My breast is softer than the sod; 
This room, with lighter hearth, 
Is better place for thy sweet face
Than frozen mother eatrth.
Oh, my babe! oh, my lost babe! 
Oh, babe with waxen hands, 
I want thee so, I need thee so -
Come from thy mystic lands! 

No love that, like a mother’s fills
Each corner of the heart; 
No loss like hers, that rends, and chills, 
And tears the soul apart.
Oh, babe - my babe, my helpless babe! 
I miss thy little form.
Would I might creep where thou dost sleep, 
And clasp thee through the storm.

I hold thy pillow to my breast, 
To bring a vague relief; 
I sing the songs that soothed thy rest -
Ah me! no cheating grief.
My breathing babe! my sobbing babe! 
I miss thy plaintive moan, 
I cannot hear - thou art not near -
My little one, my own.

Thy father sleeps. He mourns thy loss, 
But little fathers know
The pain that makes a mother toss
Through sleepless nights of woe.
My clinging babe! my nursing babe! 
What knows thy father - man -
How my breasts miss thy lips’ soft kiss -
None but a mother can.

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