I lay my tasks down one by one; I sit in the silence of twilight grace. Out of the shadows, deep and dun, Steals, like a star, my Baby's face. .... I will take up my work once more, As if I had never laid it down. Who will dream that I ever wore, In triumph, motherhood's sacred crown? .... Nevertheless, the way is long, And tears leap up in the light of the sun. I'd give my world for a cradle-song, And a kiss from Baby—only one.

The speaker pauses from daily labor at dusk, when quiet and fading light invite memory. In that liminal “twilight” space, the lost child’s face appears with the sudden, piercing clarity of a star emerging from darkness. The poem contrasts outward composure—returning to work “as if” nothing happened—with an inward, enduring grief that others may never suspect. Its power lies in the tension between social expectations of stoic productivity and the private reality of bereavement: the “sacred crown” of motherhood is remembered as both triumph and wound. The closing wish—trading “my world” for a single lullaby and kiss—condenses mourning into an impossible, intimate bargain.