Mother's Dream and Other Poems

Half our sorrows, half our troubles,
Making head and heart to ache,
Are the fruit of blowing bubbles,
Bright to view, but quick to break.
All have played the child imbecile,
Breathing hard to swell the sides
Of a shining, fluid vessel,
Frailer than the air it rides.
From the infant’s cradle rising,
All the bubble mania show,
Oft our richest wealth comprising
In the bubbles that we blow.
Brilliant, buoyant, upward going,
Pleased, we mark them in their flight,
Every hue of iris showing,
As they glance along...