A dozen years since in this house what commotion, <br />What bustle, what stir, and what joyful ado; <br />Every soul in the family at my devotion, <br />When into the world I came twelve years ago. <br /> <br /> <br />I've been told by my friends (if they do not belie me) <br />My promise was such as no parent would scorn; <br />The wise and the aged who prophesied by me <br />Augured nothing but good of me when I was born. <br /> <br /> <br />But vain are the hopes which are formed by a parent, <br />Fallacious the marks which in infancy shine; <br />My frail constitution soon made it apparent, <br />I nourished within me the seeds of decline. <br /> <br /> <br />On a sick bed I lay, through the flesh my bones started, <br />My grief-wasted frame to a skeleton fell; <br />My physicians foreboding took leave and departed, <br />And they wished me dead now, who wishëd me well. <br /> <br /> <br />Life and soul were kept in by a mother's assistance, <br />Who struggled with faith, and prevailed 'gainst despair; <br />Like an angel she watched o'er the lamp of existence, <br />And never would leave while a glimmer was there. <br /> <br /> <br />By her care I'm alive now-but what retribution <br />Can I for a life twice bestowed thus confer? <br />Were I to be silent, each year's revolution <br />Proclaims-each new birthday is owing to her. <br /> <br /> <br />The chance-rooted tree that by waysides is planted, <br />Where no friendly hand will watch o'er its young shoots, <br />Has less blame if in autumn, when produce is wanted, <br />Enriched by small culture it put forth small fruits. <br /> <br /> <br />But that which with labour in hot-beds is reared, <br />Secured by nice art from the dews and the rains, <br />Unsound at the root may with justice be feared, <br />If it pay not with interest the tiller's hard pains.<br /><br />Charles Lamb<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-birthday-15/
