Our grandbaby Rachel with her loving mother Melanie
Come Play With Me
Passing through her kitchen,
I saw dishes waiting there. . .
A basket full of laundry
Beside a rocking chair.
Her house was clean, but much undone-
I wondered, “Where is she
That order is not all about
As time approaches three?”
And then I heard her voice so young,
The house at once was gay. . .
And I saw her children gathered close
To where she knelt in play.
She jumped upon her feet in haste,
And came to welcome me—
And for the lack of order
Gave this thoughtful repartee.
“It seems that work will always wait,
While time is never still. . .
I like to, while my children’s here,
Drink of them my fill.
I know in years ahead they’ll think
Not of my work all done,
But how they loved their days at home
And shared with me their fun.
And when their paths lie far from mine
And life can ordered be
The memories of the joys we knew
Will be a song for me.
The song fills a mother’s heart
At end of every day. . .
Who never could refuse the plea
To “Come with me and play”.
—Harriet Elmblad
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