Motherhood.
Volume 1, 1890/91, pg. 68
As they are wariest guides who most have met
Mischance themselves, thy mother's slips may yet
Show thy feet, daughter, places to eschew.
Ah, sweet the mother-walk, but perilous!
And flowers do grace the progress hazardous,
Tho' heedless pilgrims chance on bitter rut!
But thou, my daughter, meekly glad, hast tae'n
A man fro' the Lord: thy joy hath wholesome pain
Of diffidence:--
"Thou, Wisest, make me wise,
For the child's sake, that in my bosom lies!"
Still hold thy soul 'fore heaven, as April earth,
Waiting the fall of counsel: nor in vain--
Who hath so graced thee to a blessed birth
Will not His wisdom's waterings refrain.
Typed by Jennifer Talsma, Sep. 2015; Proofread by LNL, Jun. 2024