EVENING

AGE cannot wither her whom not gray hairs Nor furrowed cheeks have made the thrall

of Time;

For Spring lies hidden under Winter's rime,
And violets know the victory is theirs.
Even so the corn of Egypt, unawares,
Proud Nilus shelters with engulfing slime;
So Etna's hardening crust a more sublime
Volley of pent-up fires at last prepares.
O face yet fair, if paler, and serene
With sense of duty done without complaint!
O venerable crown!- a living green,
Strength to the weak, and courage to the
faint

Thy bleaching locks, thy wrinkles, have but

been

Fresh beads upon the rosary of a saint!

Wendell Phillips Garrison

TO MY FIRST LOVE, MY MOTHER

SONNETS are full of love, and this my tome Has many sonnets: so here now shall be One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me To her whose heart is my heart's quiet home, To my first Love, my Mother, on whose

knee

I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome;

Whose service is my special dignity,

And she my lodestar while I

go

and come.

And so because you love me, and because I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath

Of rhymes wherewith to crown your honored name:

In

you not fourscore years can dim the flame

Of love, whose blessed glow transcends the

laws

Of time and change and mortal life and

death.

Christina G. Rossetti

MOTHER O' MINE1

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,
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!

Rudyard Kipling

AT BETHLEHEM

LONG, long before the Babe could speak,
When he would kiss his mother's cheek
And to her bosom press,

The brightest angels standing near
Would turn away to hide a tear
For they are motherless.

1 By permission of the author, Rudyard Kipling. From The Light that Failed, copyright, 1899, by Rudyard Kipling.