And all the flickering song and shade Swift through her haunted fingers pass I dipped my face in flowers and grass One time she touched the cloud that kissed Brown pastures bleak and far; — I leaned my cheek into a mist And thought I was a star. All this was very long ago And I am grown; but yet The hand that lured my slumber so For still when drowsiness comes on II HER WORDS My mother has the prettiest tricks Her talk comes out as smooth and sleek She shapes her speech all silver fine Because she loves it so. And her own eyes begin to shine And if she goes to make a call Or out to take a walk We leave our work when she returns We had not dreamed these things were so Her speech is as a thousand eyes God wove a web of loveliness, Of clouds and stars and birds, But made not anything at all They shine around our simple earth With golden shadowings, And every common thing they touch Is exquisite with wings. There's nothing poor and nothing small They are the hands of living faith That touch the garment's hem. They are as fair as bloom or air, They shine like any star, And I am rich who learned from her How beautiful they are. *From "The Little Book of Modern Verse," by courtesy of the author. MOTHER * BY THERESA HELBURN I have praised many loved ones in my song, Before her shrine, to whom all things belong, Perhaps the ripening future holds a time. Not now; men do not celebrate in rhyme * From "The Little Book of Modern Verse," by courtesy of the author. IT IS NOT YOURS, O MOTHER, TO COMPLAIN * BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON It is not yours, O mother, to complain, Shall to your bosom creep, Though nevermore again you watch your baby sleep. Though in the greener paths of earth, We wander; and no more the birth Seems still the brave reward that once it seemed of yore; Though as all passes, day and night, The seasons and the years, From you, O mother, this delight, This also disappears · Some profit yet survives of all your pangs and tears. The child, the seed, the grain of corn, The acorn on the hill, Each for some separate end is born In season fit, and still Each must in strength arise to work the almighty will. So from the hearth the children flee, By that almighty hand Austerely led so one by sea Goes forth, and one by land: Nor aught of all man's sons escapes from that command. So from the sally each obeys The unseen almighty nod; So till the ending all their ways Blindfolded both have trod: 109 Nor knew their task at all, but were the tools of God. And as the fervent smith of yore Beat out the glowing blade, But in the tower at home still plied his ring- So like a sword the son shall roam On nobler missions sent; And as the smith remained at home In peaceful turret pent, So sits the while at home the mother well content. * By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons. TO MY MOTHER BY FELICIA HEMANS If e'er for human bliss or woe If e'er my heart has learn'd to know My mother's fostering care. |