A loud cry has a scampering father lay down a tear of joy
A son was born on this day above all the others
He is our piece of immortality
Friends ask of how he burdens, indeed a price is, happiness much greater

My son, my sweet little naïve mister
No query does he, no regrets hath he
My emotive self is see sawing on this drive to healing
These veins running through my body pull upon this pumping heart, sapping, tearing, cutting!
Oft I think if it could be, that we might be eased, oft! Indeed is where we want to be