Which, soothed and sweetened by the grace of Heaven As now it is, seems to her own fond heart, Immortal as the love that gave it being. William Wordsworth SONGS FOR MY MOTHER I HER HANDS My mother's hands are cool and fair, When I was small and could not sleep, She used to come to me, And with my cheek upon her hand For everything she ever touched Their memories living in her hands Her hands remember how they played Swift through her haunted fingers pass One time she touched the cloud that kissed I leaned my cheek into a mist All this was very long ago And I am grown; but yet The hand that lured my slumber so For still when drowsiness comes on II HER WORDS My mother has the prettiest tricks She shapes her speech all silver fine Because she loves it so. And her own eyes begin to shine To hear her stories grow. And if she goes to make a call Or out to take a walk We leave our work when she returns We had not dreamed these things were so God wove a web of loveliness, They shine around our simple earth With golden shadowings, And every common thing they touch Is exquisite with wings. There's nothing poor and nothing small But is made fair with them. They are the hands of living faith That touch the garment's hem. They are as fair as bloom or air, And I am rich who learned from her How beautiful they are. Anna Hempstead Branch |