Nature - the Gentlest Mother Is

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.

by Emily Dickinson