When baby’s bath is over
And she’s all clean and sweet,
My mother rocks her gently while
I tiptoe to her feet.
With tiny eyes so tightly closed
She lies there soundly sleeping;
Yet, now and then she smiles as though
A secret she was keeping.
“She’s talking with the angels now,”
My mother whispers low,
“She’s listening to the angels, too,”
As somehow mothers know.
When morning brings the sunshine,
She naps and smiles and dreams
Of happy days and mother’s love,
And small cherubic schemes,
Though baby days will hurry by,
I shall forever see
Her talking with the angels,
Asleep on mother’s knee.

March 1969