Sailor Son

When you come home I'll not be round
         To welcome you.
They'll take you to a grassy mound
         So neat and new;
Where I'll be sleeping—O so sound!
         The ages through.

I'll not be round to broom the hearth,
         To feed the chicks;
And in the wee room of your birth
         Your bed to fix;
Rose room that knew your baby mirth
         Your tiny tricks.

I'll not be round . . . The garden still
         With bees will hum;
To cheerful you the throstle's bill
         Will not be dumb;
The rambler rose will overspill
         When you will come.

Bird, bee and bloom, they'll greet you all
         With scented sound;
Yet though the joy of your footfall
         Will thrill the ground
Your mother with her old grey shawl—
         Will not be round.