SOMETIMES when they are tucked in bed the gentle mother comes to me <br />And talks about each curly head, and wonders what they're going to be. <br />She tells about the fun they've had while I was toiling far away, <br />Recalls the bright things that the lad and little girl have had to say. <br />Each morning is a pleasure new, and gladness overflows the cup, <br />And then she says: 'What will we do, what will we do when they're grown up?' <br /> <br />She looks about the room and sees the train of cars beneath the chair, <br />The soldiers resting at their ease, the wooly dog, the Teddy bear, <br />The china doll, the painted ball, the building blocks about the floor, <br />And then she smiles to see them all, and even wishes there were more; <br />The whole day passes in review, she stoops and strokes the wooly pup, <br />And says to me: 'What will we do, what will we do when they're grown up?' <br /> <br />I share with her that self-same dread, a house devoid of children's toys, <br />No little tots to put to bed, no romping little girls and boys; <br />No little lips to kiss at night, no broken skates or sleds to mend, <br />I fear to think that such delight the years will very quickly end. <br />Old Age, I dare not look at you, when we alone shall sit and sup, <br />I wonder, too, what will we do, what will we do when they're grown up?<br /><br />Edgar Albert Guest<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dreading-2/
