Could from our best of duties ever shrink?
Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink
Than we, ungrateful leave thee in that day,
To pine in solitude thy life away,
Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink.
Banish the thought! - where'er our steps may roam,
O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree,
Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee,
And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home;
While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage,
And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age.
BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
I write. My mother was a Florentine,
Whose rare blue eyes were shut from seeing me
When scarcely I was four years old; my life,
A poor spark snatched up from a failing lamp
Which went out therefore. She was weak and frail;
She could not bear the joy of giving life-
The mother's rapture slew her. If her kiss
Had left a longer weight upon my lips,
It might have steadied the uneasy breath,
And reconciled and fraternized my soul
With a new order. As it was, indeed,
I felt a mother-want about the world,
And still went seeking, like a bleating lamb
Left out at night, in shutting up the fold,-
As restless as a nest-deserted bird
Grown chill through something being away, though
It knows not. I, Aurora Leigh, was born
To make my father sadder, and myself
Not overjoyous, truly. Women know
The way to rear up children (to be just)
They know a simple, merry, tender knack
Of tying sashes, fitting baby-shoes,
And stringing pretty words that make no sense,
And kissing full sense into empty words;
Which things are corals to cut life upon,
Although such trifles: children learn by such
Love's holy earnest in a pretty play,
And get not over-early solemnized,
But seeing, as in a rose-bush, Love's Divine, Which burns and hurts not, not a single bloom,Become aware and unafraid of Love.
Such good do mothers. Fathers love as well
Mine did, I know,- but still with heavier brains,
And wills more consciously responsible,
And not as wisely, since less foolishly;
So mothers have God's license to be missed.
EDWARD SALISBURY FIELD, 1904
TO MY MOTHER
I've gone about for years I find
With eyes half blind,
Squandering golden hours
In search of flow'rs
That do not grow, it seems,
Except in dreams;
But in my wanderings
From place to place
I've found more fair no face
No eyes more true than thine,
Oh mother mine.
If I were hanged on the highest hill,
Mother o'mine, O mother o'mine!
I know whose love would follow me still,
Mother o'mine, O mother o'mine!
If I were drowned in the deepest sea,
Mother o'mine, O mother o'mine!
I know whose tears would come down to me,
Mother o'mine, O mother o'mine!
If I were damned of body and soul,
Mother o'mine, O mother o'mine!
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
Mother o'mine, O mother o'mine!
Copyright by Doubleday, Page & Company.
Send my little book a-field,
Fronting praise or blame,
With the shining flag to shield
Of your name.
BY KATHLEEN NORRIS, 1911
As years ago we carried to your knees
The tales and treasures of eventful days,
Knowing no deed too humble for your praise,
Nor any gift too trivial to please,
So still we bring, with older smiles and tears,
What gifts we may, to claim the old, dear right;
Your faith, beyond the silence and the night,
Your love still close and watching through the years.
OVERHEARD IN ARCADY BY ROBERT BRIDGES (DROCH)*
Long years you've kept the door ajar
To greet me, coming from afar:
Long years in my accustomed place
I've read my welcome in your face,
And felt the sunlight of your love
Drive back the years and gently move
The telltale shadow 'round to youth,
You've found the very spring, in truth,
That baffles time- the kindly joy
That keeps me in your heart a boy.
And now I send an unknown guest
To bide with you and snugly rest
Beside the old home's ingle-nook.-
For love of me you'll love my book.
*By courtesy of the author from "Overheard in Arcady."
A SECULAR ODE ON THE NINTH JUBILEE OF ETON COLLEGE FOUNDER'S DAY
Christ and his Mother, heavenly maid,
Mary, in whose fair name was laid
Eton's corner, bless our youth
With truth, and purity, mother of truth!
BY WILLIAM ASPENWALL BRADLEY, 1910
TO MY MOTHer, a True GARDENER
To you who've lived your life elate
In Marvell's happy garden state,
And doubtless see, with Milton's eyes,
Eden a flow'ry Paradise,
While every walk that you have trod,
Was Enoch's walk, a walk with God-
-To you this little book I bring
Wherein our English poets sing
Of all the pleasures they have found
In gardens grayly walled around,
Of tranquil toil and studious ease,
Mid flowers, shrubberies and trees,
Because you Cowley's wish have known
To have a garden of your own,
And having it, have plied that art
Which Temple calls the ladies' part,
So well, your skill might seem to be
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