Prone in the prison of a lonely night,
At last the darkness quivers to my sight;
The Sheriff Sun has come to give release,
And far before him throws a crawling light.
Ah, were it not the Sheriff pacing slow,
Grimly to offer me the lesser woe
Of barren toil, and back to jail at night,—
But Mother, as in days of long ago!
In heaven, O God! I want no joy but this;
Once more to have the child's unconscious bliss,
The perfect sleep unvexed by any pain,
And Mother to awake me with a kiss.
