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 | The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman |  |
A MOTHER'S PICTURE
She seemed an angel to our infant eyes!Once, when the glorifying moon revealed
Her who at evening by our pillow kneeled,—
Soft-voiced and golden-haired, from holy skies
Flown to her loves on wings of Paradise,—
We looked to see the pinions half concealed.
The Tuscan vines and olives will not yield
Her back to me, who loved her in this wise,
And since have little known her, but have grown
To see another mother, tenderly
Watch over sleeping children of my own.
Perchance the years have changed her: yet alone
401
The fair young angel of my infancy.
| The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman | |