Don't wait until her weary steps But show her that you think of her, If you have a tender message, Who knows what bitter memories The tender word unspoken, MY MOTHER BY JANE TAYLOR Who fed me from her gentle breast, When sleep forsook my open eye, And rocked me that I should not cry? Who sat and watched my infant head, My Mother. When pain and sickness made me cry, My Mother. Who dressed my doll in clothes so gay, My Mother. Who ran to help me when I fell, My Mother. Who taught my infant lips to pray, My Mother. And can I ever cease to be, My Mother. Ah! no, the thought I cannot bear, My Mother. When thou art feeble, old, and gray, My Mother. And when I see thee hang thy head, My Mother. For God, who lives above the skies, Would look with vengeance in his eyes, HALF-WAKING BY WILLIAM ALLINGHAM * I thought it was the little bed I slept in long ago; My Mother. A straight white curtain at the head, I thought I saw the nursery fire, If I should make the slightest sound She'd rise, and lap the blankets round, Kiss me and turn my face to see The shadows on the wall, And then sing "Rousseau's Dream" to me Till fast asleep I fall. But this is not my little bed; That time is far away: With strangers now I live instead, From dreary day to day. *From "The Victorian Anthology," published by Houghton Mifflin Company. TO A CHILD EMBRACING HIS MOTHER BY THOMAS HOOD Love thy mother, little one! Kiss and clasp her neck again - Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. Gaze upon her living eyes, And mirror back her love for thee,- To meet them when they cannot see. Press her lips the while they glow With love that they have often told,— And kiss them till thine own are cold. Oh, revere her raven hair! Although it be not silver-gray- Pray for her at eve and morn, That Heaven may long the stroke defer;For thou mayst live the hour forlorn When thou wilt ask to die with her. Pray for her at eve and morn! TO MY MOTHER BY ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER I see your face as on that calmer day Beyond these petty cares and questionings Beyond this sphere of sordid human thingsThe trampled field of time's capricious play. |