Connie Leigh Lindsay
My sons, you are slowly growing
away from the babies I remember.
Every passing day I wish you were still
the little babies that I could sit and hold for hours.
I know you each have to grow,
to become your own person.
Yet I still wish that time would stand still,
to keep you as you are now.
I'm afraid that one day soon
I'll have to let you go completely.
I hope at least, that I will always
be the one you come to for advice.
My sons, how I ache to keep you here,
yet I also hope you have a child of your own
To pass on the teaching and advice
I have and will give each of you.
My sons, you will always be with me
no matter where you go or who you become.
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Comments about this poem (My Sons by Connie Leigh Lindsay )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
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