Poetry Archives

From torrid heat to frigid cold
     I’ve rovered land and sea;
And now, with halting heart I hold
     My grandchild on my knee:
Yet while I’ve eighty years all told,
     Of moons she has but three.

She sleeps, that fragile miniature
     Of future maidenhood;
She will be wonderful, I’m sure,
     As over her I brood;
She is so innocent, so pure,
     I know she will be good.

My way I’ve won from woe to weal,
     And hard has been the fight;
Yet in my ingle-nook I feel
     A wondrous peace to-night;
And over me serenely steal
     Warm waves of love and light.

“What sloppy stuff!” I hear you say.
     “Give us a lusty song.”
Alas! I’m bent and gnarled and grey,—
     My life may not be long:
Yet let its crown of glory be
     This child upon me knee.