Lord Byron Poem

To My Son

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Welcome, you, so small and strange.
I cannot think your gift is due;
Need that drinks away the guilt
Of carelessly conceiving you.

Never in your teens and twenties
May I turn around and say:
The balm of need is all forgotten;
Children for their succour pay.

Never as you grow to manhood
May I feed your need for me,
Breeding up a lolling monster,
Guarding you from living free.

Can you hear my prayers, my child,
Deaf and dumb and blind in sleep?
Perfect witness to a promise
Mothers almost never keep.

Queries to Casuists
On Revisiting Harrow

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