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Show i RcnK Circle is j MOTHERHOOD. "Tis but of trifles, all the sweet lore. Wherein we grow so wise, as days go by; And that within the house, so still before, be-fore, Trembles a baby's cry. Yet happv mother, whose fond arms enfold en-fold The fragile burden that so strangely , stirs. And, cooing, clings with weak, appealing yet is wholly hers! Oh. happy .mother, who in silence hears Such chords as thrill too touchingly for sound; Who pauses at the threshold of the years, As upon holy ground! Blest woman she. whose lips are shaping now. In soft, vague syllables this wondrous good : Who wears in queenliness upon her brow The crown of motherhood! Tho' but of trifles all the new, .sweet lore, Wherein we grow so wise as days go by. Alas, for homes thro' which, like ours of yore. Trembles no baby's cry! |