A BABY lying on his mother’s breast <br />Draws life from that sweet fount; <br />He takes his rest <br />And heaves deep sighs; <br />With brooding eyes <br />Of soft content <br />She shelters him within that fragrant nest, <br />And scarce refrains from crushing him <br />With tender violence, <br />His rosebud mouth, each rosy limb <br />Excite such joy intense; <br />Rocked on that gentle billow, <br />She sings into his ear <br />A song that angels stoop to hear. <br />Blest child and mother doubly blest! <br />Such his first pillow. <br /> <br />A man outwearied with the world’s mad race <br />His mother seeks again; <br />His furrowed face, <br />His tired gray head, <br />His heart of lead <br />Resigned he yields; <br />She covers him in some secluded place, <br />And kindly heals the earthy scar <br />Of spade with snow and flowers, <br />While glow of sun and gleam of star, <br />And murmuring rush of showers, <br />And wind-obeying willow <br />Attend his unbroken sleep; <br />In this repose secure and deep, <br />Forgotten save by One, he leaves no trace. <br />Such his last pillow.<br /><br />Irving Browne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/man-s-pillow/
