Of Things More Beautiful

Of things more beautiful, how much could be
for me to know than you, my child, and she
whose flesh you share?

What greater prize than you, a smiling boy,
behind her eyes, within her limbs, uncoiled
in lazy grace?

How you spring forth, my son, the minute she
looks up, or haunted by the sea,
shows fear or pain!

And how I clasp you to myself for joy
as I clasp her whose moods are but the toys
for your young games!