The White Cliffs by Alice Duer Miller

Maternity is common, but not so It seemed to me. Motherless, I did not know-- I was all unprepared to feel this glow, Holy as a Madonna's, and as crude As any animal's beatitude-- Crude as my own black cat's, who used to bring Her newest litter to me every spring, And say, with green eyes shining in the sun: "Behold this miracle that I have done."

And John came home on leave, and all was joy And thankfulness to me, because my boy Was not a baby only, but the heir-- Heir to the Devon acres and a name As old as England. Somehow I became Almost an English woman, almost at one With all they ever did--all they had done.