C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Her First-Born

IT was her first sweet child, her heart’s delight;

And though we all foresaw his early doom,

We kept the fearful secret out of sight;

We saw the canker, but she kissed the bloom.

And yet it might not be: we could not brook

To vex her happy heart with vague alarms,

To blanch with fear her fond intrepid look,

Or send a thrill through those encircling arms.

She smiled upon him, waking or at rest;

She could not dream her little child would die;

She tossed him fondly with an upward eye;

She seemed as buoyant as a summer spray

That dances with a blossom on its breast,

Nor knows how soon it will be borne away.