The Price
By Winona Douglas
(In “The Woman’s Journal.”)
Sleep, little dream child, in mother’s arms;
Cuddle yet closer and take your rest,
Eyelids now hiding the blue eyes since laughing,
Laughing in glee here on mother’s breast.
Dear are the moments with you I am spending;
Toil is forgotten in comfort and calm.
Together we are, wee one, in the gloaming,
Evening blessed,—my babe’s coo is a psalm.—
You were my dream child, and I must awaken,
My arms are empty, sweet babe unborn,
For me the lone quiet, while night is fast darkening;
Darkening now, and there’s toil on the morn.
The days come and go, toil is ever supreme;
Motherhood smother, the thought is vain.
Forget it, indeed, for wheels must be turning,
Turning incessantly—more wealth to gain!