In these eight lines, a mother speaks to her little son, piling up paradoxes to capture how much he means to her. He is both the height of her sorrow and the center of her pride; he comforts her and keeps her hoping even when hope is postponed. Her dreams are made of him, yet he is also the puzzle at the heart of her struggles. The final image makes the child feel like an entire world—full of chaos and joy at once. The mood is intense and intimate, not simply sweet. Love here is tangled with pain, longing, and frustration, but it is never uncertain. The poem leaves the impression that this child is not just part of her life; for the speaker, he is life itself, in all its turmoil and delight.
Little Son — Summary
The very acme of my woe, The pivot of my pride, My consolation, and my hope Deferred, but not denied.
The substance of my every dream, The riddle of my plight, The very world epitomized In turmoil and delight.