Isabella Valancy Crawford

(25 December 1850 – 12 February 1887 / Dublin, Ireland)

His Wife and Baby


In the lone place of the leaves,
Where they touch the hanging eaves,
There sprang a spray of joyous song that sounded sweet and sturdy;
And the baby in the bed
Raised the shining of his head,
And pulled the mother's lids apart to wake and watch the birdie.
She kissed lip-dimples sweet,
The red soles of his feet,
The waving palms that patted hers as wind-blown blossoms wander;
He twined her tresses silk
Round his neck as white as milk­
'Now, baby, say what birdie sings upon his green spray yonder.'

'He sings a plenty things­
Just watch him wash his wings!
He says Papa will march to-day with drums home through the city.
Here, birdie, here's my cup.
You drink the milk all up;
I'll kiss you, birdie, now you're washed like baby clean and pretty.'

She rose, she sought the skies
With the twin joys of her eyes;
She sent the strong dove of her soul up through the dawning's glory;
She kissed upon her hand
The glowing golden band
That bound the fine scroll of her life and clasped her simple story.

Submitted: Tuesday, December 31, 2002

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