Dearest, your mother feels (though dead) this birth—
Laughs at the fire within your shining eyes—
Your eyes, yet mine, wherein such glory lies
Never before beheld upon the earth.
She scents the fragrance of the lily-mirth
Lilting this body that I drew all-wise
Out of your own, so hers, and with low sighs,
Mellowed in mine to what a wondrous worth.

Kiss me. Kiss her. The miracle is wrought—
The simple beauty out of simple love—
Mother and father, child and God—all One—
Eternal trinity for ever sought.
O, blessed from her quiet place above,
Your mother kisses us—a life’s work done.