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, 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, If I were damned of body and soul, Rudyard Kipling AT BETHLEHEM LONG, long before the Babe could speak, The brightest angels standing near 1 By permission of the author, Rudyard Kipling. From The Light that Failed, copyright, 1899, by Rudyard Kipling. |