My children are my own interpreters
Of this strange modern world of ours,
That seems to yield no keys, no pa**, no powers
Into my hands, unless perchance the spurs
That now and then I loan, and there occurs
So grave a doubt, such hounding of the hours,
I choose to trust the child, that never cowers
That I may share his lot, whate'er incurs.
One sweeps the univers, unseen but heart;
One loafs along the field, the stream, the height;
One delves into the mind's rich vein of ore.
And Mother-like I pray some magic word
Of mine be near, if tears should blind their sight,
And may my love illumine more and more.