Where were ye, Birds, that bless His name,
When wingless to the world He came,
And wordless, though Himself the Word
That made the blossom and the bird?

John Banister Tabb

TO HIS MOTHER

He brought a Lily white,
That bowed its fragrant head
And blushed a rosy red

Before her fairer light.

He brought a rose; and, lo,
The crimson blossom saw
Her beauty, and in awe

Became as white as snow.

John Banister Tabb

THE SHEPHERDESS

SHE walks the lady of my delight—

A shepherdess of sheep.

Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white;

She guards them from the steep.

She feeds them on the fragrant height,
And folds them in for sleep.

She roams maternal hills and bright,
Dark valleys safe and deep.

Into that tender breast at night

The chastest stars may peep.

She walks the lady of my delight

A shepherdess of sheep.

She holds her little thoughts in sight,
Though gay they run and leap.

She is so circumspect and right;
She has her soul to keep.

She walks the lady of my delight

A shepherdess of sheep.

Alice Meynell

MOTHERLESS

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 what

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

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.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning

CHILD AND MOTHER

O MOTHER-MY-LOVE, if you'll give me your hand,

And go where I ask you to wander, I will lead you away to a beautiful land The Dreamland that's waiting out yon

der.

We'll walk in a sweet-posie garden out there Where moonlight and starlight are stream

ing

And the flowers and birds are filling the air

With fragrance and music of dreaming.

There'll be no little tired-out boy to undress, No questions or cares to perplex you; There'll be no little bruises or bumps to

caress,

Nor patching of stockings to vex you. For I'll rock you away on a silver-dew stream,

And sing you asleep when you're weary, And no one shall know of our beautiful

dream

But you and your own little dearie.

And when I am tired I'll nestle my head In the bosom that's soothed me so often,

And the wide-awake stars shall sing in my

stead

A song which our dreaming shall soften. So Mother-my-Love, let me take your dear hand,

And away through the starlight we'll wander

Away through the mist to the beautiful land

The Dreamland that's waiting out yon

der!

Eugene Field

MY AIN WIFE

I WADNA gi'e my ain wife

For wife I see;
ony

I wadna gi'e my ain wife

For ony wife I see;

A bonnier yet I've never seen,

A better canna be

I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see!

O couthie is my ingle-cheek,
An' cheerie is my Jean;
I never see her angry look,

Nor hear her word on ane.

She's gude wi' a' the neebours roun'
An' aye gude wi' me