Mother And Child.

See them strolling in the evening

by hedges white with hawthorn bloom,

his small hand in hers enfolded,

in earnest speech his face unturned.

And I would hold his hand that's free,

be a part of that intimate world,

to share, before lost, the wonderment

of my one and fleeting child.

But there hangs a greyness on my eyes,

and doom moves in my breast,

and there's a gulf between man and boy

where hopes lie strewn about.

Sometimes, in dream, they walk before me,

far ahead, where the road is bending;

I hail them, but my cry is feeble,

and on they go to realms eternal.