I may not tell you all they told me.
Go press your ear to the fragrant sod--
The pulse that beats in Nature's bosom
Throbs in the heart of Nature's God.

Beatrice

Dimpled hands and dimpled cheeks,
Dimpled chin beguiling;
Rows of gleaming, pearly teeth,
Rosy lips a smiling.

Rings of dark and shining hair,
Around a white brow clinging;
Hazel eyes where gladness shines,
And sets the heart to singing.

Dainty feet with dimpled toes,
Little hands caressing;
Gurgling laugh and lisping tongue
Helplessness confessing.

Roguish glances, sidelong, sweet,
What is Baby doing?
Face half hidden in my breast,
All my kisses wooing.

Softly, softly slumber comes,
See her eyes are closing;
Cupid, shorn of bow and wings,
In my arms reposing.

Blessed home where baby comes,
What a void without her;
Joy and love and sunshine bright,
Lingers all about her.

Not a shadow comes to me,
But at once 'tis lifted,
Just because this Baby sweet,
Down from Heaven drifted.

[Illustration: "MY BOY"]

My Boy

Oh, where did you come from, baby mine,
With your face like a cherub's sweet?
Did the angels scatter with flowers, the path
That was pressed by your little feet?
Or, did you fly from the realms of love?
On your shoulders methinks I see
In the crumpled roseleaf dimples there,
The place where the wings should be.
The angels were loth to leave you, my child,
I know they were filled with fear,
I almost fancy I hear their wings
Hovering somewhere near.
Oh, they need not doubt that your mother's heart
Holds less of love than their own,
And though I may lack of their wisdom my pet,
My love for the lack shall atone.
Oh, gift of the angels--Gift of God,
What a trust for a mortal to hold!
A boy to guide in the paths of right,
A soul for Heaven to mold.
My darling, I fain would shelter you here,
Close, close on my own fond breast,
For my heart shrinks back from the terrors of life
When my bird flies out of the nest.
If only Christ gave me the power, my boy,
To suffer and toil in your stead,
I'd pluck every thorn from your path in life
And toss you its roses instead.
And the selfish love of your mother, boy,
Would rob you of life's best boon,
And drown the chorus of angel choirs,
By setting the world attune