Here there is no antidote for longing.
A love like this admits no more or less.
Perhaps that is the price of happiness.
Perhaps love is itself a kind of yearning.
Yet mothers need to temper their desiring,
Making room for those whom they would bless,
On whom they lay the burden of success,
The mirror in which they would see their dancing.
Here one cannot choose to be too choosy.
Each child is a separate universe
Regarding one's sweet dreams with its own eyes
'Mid the ancient battleground called love.
So must mothers do their chosen duty,
Deep in love for better or for worse,
And easy in their minds, if they are wise,
Yet with hopes no wisdom can remove.