By Edith Cherrington
When you face the knowledge of barren years
Do your errant thoughts keep turning
To the silent dusk of your empty rooms
With a strong persistent yearning?
Did you feel you were cheated of something fine
When you put an end to hoping?
Do you long for the touch of baby hands
With baby fingers – groping?
Will your name go down to forgetfulness
When you sink with the setting sun?
Leaving no heir to carry on
The work that you left undone?
Then take some child to your home and heart!
Some motherless lass or lad.
You’ll love him as well as you would have done
The child that you never had.