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Emily Dickinson - Nature the gentlest mother is
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Nature the gentlest mother is, 
Impatient of no child, 
The feeblest of the waywardest. 
Her admonition mild 

In forest and the hill 
By traveller be heard, 
Restraining rampant squirrel 
Or too impetuous bird. 

How fair her conversation 
A summer afternoon, 
Her household her assembly; 
And when the sun go down, 

Her voice among the aisles 
Incite the timid prayer 
Of the minutest cricket, 
The most unworthy flower. 

When all the children sleep, 
She turns as long away 
As will suffice to light her lamps, 
Then bending from the sky 

With infinite affection 
An infiniter care, 
Her golden finger on her lip, 
Wills silence everywhere.
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