 | Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood |  |
TO MY MOTHER.
Sweet mother! you fear while no longer you guide me,
The Past will be lost in the Present's gay show;
But ah! whether joy or misfortune betide me,
I love you too dearly, your love to forego!
The Past will be lost in the Present's gay show;
But ah! whether joy or misfortune betide me,
I love you too dearly, your love to forego!
I would not, for all that the Future can bring me,
Forget the dear hours when I sat at your feet,
The song, that was sure of approval, to sing thee,
The look, that was always so loving, to meet.
Forget the dear hours when I sat at your feet,
The song, that was sure of approval, to sing thee,
The look, that was always so loving, to meet.
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When I flew to your smile with each joyous emotion,
But hid from your heart every sorrow I knew;
Oh! wayward perhaps was my childish devotion,
But it ne'er for a moment was cold or untrue.
But hid from your heart every sorrow I knew;
Oh! wayward perhaps was my childish devotion,
But it ne'er for a moment was cold or untrue.
And still, when the chill wing of wo darkens o'er me,
I am grateful its shadow extends not to thee;
While if praise thrill my heart or if joy smile before me,
I sigh, “Could she know it, how glad she would be!”
I am grateful its shadow extends not to thee;
While if praise thrill my heart or if joy smile before me,
I sigh, “Could she know it, how glad she would be!”
Sweet mother! too fondly your darling you cherish'd,
For me to forget you, wherever I go;—
Ah no! not till memory's power has perish'd;
I love you too dearly to turn from you so!
For me to forget you, wherever I go;—
Ah no! not till memory's power has perish'd;
I love you too dearly to turn from you so!
| Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | |