 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
MY MOTHER'S HAIR.
I have a treasure no one else would prize,
To me more precious far
Than all the marvel of the sunset skies,
Or unconjectured star;
Worth nothing to the stranger, or the glance,
That careless falls on it,
But yet to me a world of real romance,
And passion infinite;
Blent as of moonbeams and the morning rose,
And something more than fair,
Nor without calmness of the evening close,
My Mother's Hair.
To me more precious far
Than all the marvel of the sunset skies,
Or unconjectured star;
Worth nothing to the stranger, or the glance,
That careless falls on it,
But yet to me a world of real romance,
And passion infinite;
Blent as of moonbeams and the morning rose,
And something more than fair,
Nor without calmness of the evening close,
My Mother's Hair.
430
The tyranny of gray deflowering years
No portion had in this,
Soft as the trembling of an angel's tears,
Sweet as an angel's kiss;
A lock of heavenly light, it is a part
Of life's bright inward June,
And rests for ever on my heart,
That singeth it a tune;
Yea, though around me roars the surge of sin,
And evil is the air,
I find a balm of solace sure herein—
My Mother's Hair.
No portion had in this,
Soft as the trembling of an angel's tears,
Sweet as an angel's kiss;
A lock of heavenly light, it is a part
Of life's bright inward June,
And rests for ever on my heart,
That singeth it a tune;
Yea, though around me roars the surge of sin,
And evil is the air,
I find a balm of solace sure herein—
My Mother's Hair.
No portrait have I of her perfect face,
No relic but this tress
To picture all the glory of her grace,
In lonely loveliness;
And yet enough it is for me, I mark
From one pure petal's dower,
That sheds its lingering lustre on the dark,
What was the finished flower;
And in the wonder of the waiting night,
When spirits climb the stair,
I clasp that vision which is more than sight—
My Mother's Hair.
No relic but this tress
To picture all the glory of her grace,
In lonely loveliness;
And yet enough it is for me, I mark
From one pure petal's dower,
That sheds its lingering lustre on the dark,
What was the finished flower;
And in the wonder of the waiting night,
When spirits climb the stair,
I clasp that vision which is more than sight—
My Mother's Hair.
A fragile chain it is, and yet I feel
As much no ruler's rod,
And in dim corners when I humbly kneel,
It draws me unto God;
It binds me to whatever good and true
About my path may lie,
A link 'twixt this world and the other's due,
A sacramental tie;
Ah, when I pass to my eternal rest.
To leave an empty chair,
Will not some reverent hand lay on my breast
My Mother's Hair?
As much no ruler's rod,
And in dim corners when I humbly kneel,
It draws me unto God;
It binds me to whatever good and true
About my path may lie,
A link 'twixt this world and the other's due,
A sacramental tie;
Ah, when I pass to my eternal rest.
To leave an empty chair,
Will not some reverent hand lay on my breast
My Mother's Hair?
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |