Once I was young, the children small,
There was not time to finish all
The tasks, it seemed.
These things I dreamed:
A clean, still house, no urgent need,
A little time to rest and read.
Now I am older; day by day
I read the lovely hours away.
The still house gleams.
These are my dreams:
A piping voice to call its need,
A hungry little mouth to feed,
A tear to wipe, a hole to mend,
A boundless energy to lend.
Vain, idle dreams!
I found this poem today on the Mothering.com
website, and I don't know who wrote it - whether
it was Anonymous, or just an omission. I used to
proofread for Mothering, and it comes naturally to
me. ...But I was bowled over by this poem. Who wrote it?
It reminds me of a poem in a children's anthology
I might have read myself as a child, accompanied by
b&w illustrations of Mother with her chicks, and later
by the fireside, knitting...