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1864–1902

A MOTHER'S JEWELS.

Arthur Weir

The daughter of a hundred earls, No jewels has with mine to mate, Though she may wear in flawless pearls The ransom of a mighty state.

Hers glitter for the world to see, But chill the breast where they recline: My jewels warmly compass me, And all their brilliancy is mine.

My diamonds are my baby's eyes, His lips, sole rubies that I crave: They came to me from Paradise, And not through labors of the slave.

My darling's arms my necklace make, ‘ Tis Love that links his feeble hands, And Death, alone, that chain can break, And rob me of those priceless bands.

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A MOTHER'S JEWELS. · Arthur Weir · Poetry Cove