The poem
From torrid heat to frigid cold I've rovered land and sea; And now, with halting heart I hold My grandchild on my knee: Yet while I've eighty years all told, Of moons she has but three.
She sleeps, that fragile miniature Of future maidenhood; She will be wonderful, I'm sure, As over her I brood; She is so innocent, so pure, I know she will be good.
My way I've won from woe to weal, And hard has been the fight; Yet in my ingle-nook I feel A wondrous peace to-night; And over me serenely steal Warm waves of love and light.
"What sloppy stuff!" I hear you say. "Give us a lusty song." Alas! I'm bent and gnarled and grey,-- My life may not be long: Yet let its crown of glory be This child upon me knee.