Small Hands on the Latch

By Edith M.J. Hounsell

The swarthy fruit-vendor laid his hand on her head
And wistfully, these are the words that he said:
“How mucha you take for this blonde little thing?
“I like-a her smile, and her hair falls in rings.
“Or maybe you part with this big-litta boy:
“He’d filla my life with a vera-much joy.”
I knew he was childless, unwilling to be,
And my heart tear’d my eyes with a warm sympathy.
He knew – as we know – there is nothing can match
Those sweet giggly voices, small hands on the latch.
The world’s worth is trivial, unworthy veneer
Compared with the privilege of children to rear.

(1954)