Her Dead Son

God gives so much; He gives in great and small;
Our mothers, and the pool cupped in the grass;
Lovers, the young moon pricking through the glass;
We are not worth it; we give scarce at all.
God gave my son; right well do I know now
I was not worth him, nor was worth of yore
My mother, the bright water at the door;
The lad's height was a planet, mine a bough.
My slow heart turns this matter to and fro:
I was not worth the lad; let his due be
That I outclimb his star; I were a clod
Not to be less but more, at last to grow
Into the loveliness he was to me,
And being worth him, of some poor worth to God.