His Wife and Baby by Isabella Valancy Crawford

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.