My Boy
By Morris Rosenfeld
I have a little boy at home,
A pretty little son;
I think sometimes the world is mine
In him, my only one.
But seldom, seldom do I see
My child in heaven's light;
I find him always fast asleep...
I see him but at night.
Ere dawn my labor drives me forth;
'Tis night when I am free;
A stranger am I to my child;
And strange my child to me.
I come in darkness to my home,
With weariness and--pay;
My pallid wife, she waits to tell
The things he learned to say.
How plain and prettily he asked:
"Dear mamma, when's 'Tonight'?
O when will come my dear papa
And bring a penny bright?"
I hear her words--I hasten out--
This moment must it be!--
The father-love flames in my breast:
My child must look at me!
I stand beside the tiny cot,
And look, and list, and--ah!
A dream-thought moves the baby-lips:
"O, where is my papa!"
I kiss and kiss the shut blue eyes;
I kiss them not in vain.
They open,--O they see me then!
And straightway close again.
"Here's your papa, my precious one;--
A penny for you!"--ah!
A dream still moves the baby-lips:
"O, where is my papa!"
And I--I think in bitterness
And disappointment sore;
"Some day you will awake, my child,
To find me nevermore."