In the lone place of the leaves, <br />Where they touch the hanging eaves, <br />There sprang a spray of joyous song that sounded sweet and sturdy; <br /> And the baby in the bed <br /> Raised the shining of his head, <br />And pulled the mother's lids apart to wake and watch the birdie. <br /> She kissed lip-dimples sweet, <br /> The red soles of his feet, <br />The waving palms that patted hers as wind-blown blossoms wander; <br /> He twined her tresses silk <br /> Round his neck as white as milk <br />'Now, baby, say what birdie sings upon his green spray yonder.' <br /> <br /> 'He sings a plenty things <br /> Just watch him wash his wings! <br />He says Papa will march to-day with drums home through the city. <br /> Here, birdie, here's my cup. <br /> You drink the milk all up; <br />I'll kiss you, birdie, now you're washed like baby clean and pretty.' <br /> <br /> She rose, she sought the skies <br /> With the twin joys of her eyes; <br />She sent the strong dove of her soul up through the dawning's glory; <br /> She kissed upon her hand <br /> The glowing golden band <br />That bound the fine scroll of her life and clasped her simple story.<br /><br />Isabella Valancy Crawford<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/his-wife-and-baby/
