Her ample gown is of cream-hued linen, Her grandsons raised the flax, and her granddaughters spun it with the distaff and the wheel.

The melodious character of the earth, The finish beyond which philosophy cannot go and does not wish to go,

The justified mother of men.

Walt Whitman

A MOTHER

AH! bless'd are they for whom, 'mid all their pains,

That faithful and unalter'd love remains;

Who, Life wreck'd round them-hunted from their rest

And, by all else forsaken or distress'd

Claim, in one heart, their sanctuary and shrine

As I, my Mother, claim'd my place in thine!

Oft, since that hour, in sadness I retrace My childhood's vision of thy calm sweet

face;

Oft see thy form, its mournful beauty shrouded

In thy black weeds, and coif of widow's

woe;

Thy dark expressive eyes all dim and clouded By that deep wretchedness the lonely

know:

Stifling thy grief, to hear some weary task, Conn'd by unwilling lips, with listless air; Hoarding thy means, lest future need might

ask

More than the widow's pittance then could

spare.

Hidden, forgotten by the great and gay, Enduring sorrow, not by fits and starts, But the long self-denial, day by day,

Alone amidst thy brood of careless hearts! Striving to guide, to teach, or to restrain, The young rebellious spirits crowding round,

Who saw not, knew not, felt not for thy pain,

And could not comfort-yet had power

to wound!

Ah! how my selfish heart, which since hath

grown

Familiar with deep trials of its own,
With riper judgment looking to the past,
Regrets the careless days that flew so fast,
Stamps with remorse each wasted hour of

time,

And darkens every folly into crime!

Caroline E. S. Norton

TO MY MOTHER

I SEE your face as on that calmer day When from my infant eyes it passed away Beyond these petty cares and questionings Beyond this sphere of sordid human things

The trampled field of time's capricious play.

Bright with more mother-love than tongue

can say,

Stern with the sense of foes in strong array, Yet hopeful, with no hopefulness earth brings

I see your face.

O gracious guarder from the primrose way, O loving guide when wayward feet would stray,

O inspiration sweet when the heart sings, O patient ministrant to sufferings, Down the long road, madonna mia, may I see your face.

Robert Haven Schauffler

MY MOTHER

SHE was as good as goodness is,

Her acts and all her words were kind, And high above all memories

I hold the beauty of her mind.

Frederic Hentz Adams

THE END