Leave thy father, leave thy mother
And thy brother;
Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart!
Am I not thy father and thy brother,
And thy mother?
And thou--what needest with thy tribe's black tents
Who hast the red pavilion of my heart?
OUT OF THE MOUTH OF BABES
[Sidenote: _Wilfrid Maynell_]
As high up in a house as a nest
In a tree,
They have gone for the night to their rest,
The Babes three.
One will say, when they wake, with arms crossed,
"Jesus blest!"
One will cry "Mother mine"--and be lost
In that breast.
"Ta-ra-ra," then the littlest maid saith,
Two and gay;
And loud laughs with the last of her breath,
"Boom-de-ay!"
What they say, in their nests, these dear birds,
Is all even:
For their speech, be whatever their words,
Is of Heaven.
THEIR BEST
[Sidenote: _Wilfrid Maynell_]
She is a very simple maid--
Nicknamed a "tweeny";
The cook's and housemaid's riven aid,
Christ-named Irene.
And when, in lower regions, she
Hears hurled request,
She laughs or cries: "Oh, right you be,
I'll do my best."
Her very best, be very sure!
She holds it fast--
Religion undefiled and pure.
And, at the last,
When Life, from this sad house of her,
Flits like a guest,
She'll curtsy to the Judge: "O Sir,
I did my best.
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