A Mother to her sick Child

Thou canst not understand my words

No love for me was meant:

The smile that lately crossed thy face

Was but an accident.

The music’s thine, but mine the tears

That make thy lullaby;

To-day I’ll rock thee into sleep,

To-morrow thou must die.

And when our babies sleep their last,

Like agèd dames or men,

They need not mother’s lullaby,

Nor any rocking then.