Emily Dickinson

Nature The Gentlest Mother Is

Nature the gentlest mother is, Impatient of no child, The feeblest of the waywardest. Her admonition mild In forest and the hill By traveller be heard, Restraining rampant squirrel Or too impetuous bird. How fair her conversation A summer afternoon, Her household her assembly; And when the sun go down, Her voice among the aisles Incite the timid prayer Of the minutest cricket, The most unworthy flower. When all the children sleep, She turns as long away As will suffice tolight her lamps, Then bending from the sky With infinite affection An infiniter care, Her golden finger on her lip, Wills silence everywhere.

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