You sleep upon your mother's breast,
Your race begun,
A welcome, long a wish'd-for guest,
Whose age is One.
A baby-boy, you wonder why
You cannot run;
You try to talk — how hard you try! —
You're only One.
Ere long you won't be such a dunce;
You'll eat your bun,
And fly your kite, like folk, who once
Were only One.
You'll rhyme, and woo, and fight, and joke,
Perhaps you'll pun;
Such feats are never done by folk
Before they're One.
Some day, too, you may have your joy,
And envy none;
Yes, you, yourself, may own a boy
Who isn't One.
He'll dance, and laugh, and crow, he'll do
As you have done:
(You crown a happy home, tho' you
Are only One.)
But when he's grown shall you be here
To share his fun,
And talk of days when he (the dear!)
Was hardly One?
Dear child, 'tis your poor lot to be
My little son;
I'm glad, though I am old, you see, —
While you are One.