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The mother
will not turn, who thinks she hears
Her nursling's
speech first grow articulate;
But breathless with
averted eyes elate
She sits, with open lips and open
ears,
That it may call her twice. 'Mid doubts and
fears
Thus oft my soul has hearkened; till the song,
A central moan for days, at length found tongue,
And
the sweet music welled and the sweet tears.
But
now, whatever while the soul is fain
To list that
wonted murmur, as it were
The speech-bound
sea-shell's low importunate strain, -
No breath of
song, thy voice alone is there,
O bitterly beloved!
and all her gain
Is but the pang of unpermitted
prayer.
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