The suckling, put away on a couch to give his mother peace,

With his eyes traces the mother’s direction about,

And, once from sight she strays, cries in a shout –

Till she to him has returned, and then his grief forthwith does cease.

But the toiling mother, not done with business abroad,

Tries newly an old wit, and puts about the babe some toy;

But then which toy, once she flies again, riles more the disgruntled boy,

So that he more than tears now begins to weep blood:

Yet no mewling suckling craves that thing it loves as I do you,

Or one half so much feels more warm under its mother’s breasts

As I in your thoughts, wherein, tired from the world, I take my rests –

And return to the world with strength than a newborn child more new!

And yet something yokes me with the suckling together;

To see I cry after you, like it its too-precious mother!


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By Sydney Chesterfield on April 28, 2016 · Posted in Letters To Shindara by E.R. Chesterfield, Literary, Poetry

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