 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
208
TO A YOUNG MOTHER.
Yes! Love hath writ him large in that sweet face,Writ with his freest hand, his best of styles:
Methinks the sweet name, “Mother,” in those smiles
Is character'd; none others own such grace;
None those can counterfeit, none take their place.
Love with all others mingles some sweet guiles,
With baser touches Passion oft defiles,
But these are pure, of earth show scarce a trace.
Yes; thou hast seen them in the tiny glass
Of infant-faces sweet reflections meet,
From large to small the recognition pass.
So, in smooth sunlit waters, ripples fleet,
From centre stirred, in tiny dimples as
They laugh in sunshine, and, in small, repeat.
| Stones from The Quarry | |