« AnteriorContinuar »
MY MOTHER'S BIBLE
This book is all that's left me now,
Tears will unbidden start, With faltering lip and throbbing brow
I press it to my heart. For many generations past,
Here is our family tree; My mother's hands this Bible clasped,
She, dying, gave it me.
Ah! well do I remember those
Whose names these records bear; Who round the hearthstone used to
close, After the evening prayer, And speak of what these pages said
In tones my heart would thrill! Though they are with the silent dead,
Here are they living still!
My father read this holy book
To brothers, sisters, dear; How calm was my poor mother's look,
Who loved God's word to hear! Her angel face, - I see it yet!
What thronging memories come! Again that little group is met
Within the halls of home!
Thou truest friend man ever knew,
Thy constancy I've tried ;
My counselor and guide.
That could this volume buy;
George Pope Morris
I HAVE two sons, wife
Two and yet the same;
Bringing us to shame.
fights across the sea, The other is a little child who sits upon your
One is fierce and cold, wife,
As the wayward deep;
Him no breast could keep.
broken them; for he Is still the sinless little one that sits upon
One may fall in fight, wife,
Is he not our son ?
For the wayward one;
across the sea, Because you love the little shade who smiles
upon your knee.
One across the foam, wife,
As I speak may fall;
Cannot die at all.
should we be, We cannot lose the darling son who sits upon
MOTHER TO SON
BEFORE I knew the love of man
you When I grew up to woman's grace I saw you in your father's face,
where no eye
Your hands were beating at my breast,
that life can give you pain, Which does not stab in me again? Think you that life can give you pleasure Which is not my undying treasure ?
you that life can give you shame Which does not make my pride go lame? And you can do no evil thing Which sears not me with poisoned sting. Because of all that I have done, Remember me in life, O son! Keep that proud body fine and fair, My love is monumented there. For my
love make no woman weep, For my
love hold no woman cheap, And see you give no woman scorn For that dark night when you were born.
Beloved, all my years belong
Irene Rutherford McLeod
I'm quite alone in all the world, Into such bright sharp pain of anguish
hurled I cannot pray wise comfortable things; ; Death’s plunged me deep in hell, and given
me wings For terrible strange vastnesses; no hand In all this empty spirit-driven space; I stand Alone, and whimpering in my soul. I plod Among wild stars, and hide my face from God.