The Salt Of The Earth
If childhood were not in the world,
But only men and women grown;
No baby-locks in tendrils curled,
No baby-blossoms blown;
Though men were stronger, women fairer,
And nearer all delights in reach,
And verse and music uttered rarer
Tones of more godlike speech;
Though the utmost life of life’s best hours
Found, as it cannot now find, words;
Though desert sands were sweet as flowers,
And flowers could sing like birds:
But children never heard them, never
They felt a child’s foot leap and run,—
This were a drearier star than ever
Yet looked upon the sun.
—A. C. Swinburne.
The Mother-Heart
No child can ever be so dear to me
As thou wert, sweet;
And yet all childhood is more dear to me
Since I have kissed thy feet,
My babe—who bode with me so brief a space
Yet left upon my life forevermore
The glory of God’s grace!
Thy childless mother, little son, I cry
To childhood motherless:
“Lo, here am I! My heart is open wide
To welcome and to bless!
One stands within, invisible but sweet,
True to his post.
He calls the children to me from the street,
Himself their host.”
—Myrta L. Avary.
Alternate Reading: John 8: 21-59.