O you, most fearful, child of my house. O you, in whom I have aged nine years in nine months. A burden, and not a burden, But a blessing unknown. Child all of hopes, benedictions, dreams, blights. In nightmares you've been lost to me l o s t nightly in tear-stained sleeplessness. I am one of fearful mettle, trembling I hold, what I hold tightest. Many faults are held deeper, beating within my chest a chest of false fire, and a torch yet unlit. As with all your others, I cast you off, a small stone sunk into the raging tide, a crimson arrow hurled into the dark of night, flung wildly like a hope and a prayer. My graying mane and weary eyes grow old, seeing last new son of my household born. Emerging in haste, a secret now told. poems of His promise, my lineage adorned.