 | Poems |  |
NOT MINE.
Safe by the fireside I hear the winds blow,
Out of the window are wild wastes of snow;
Here as I sit by the firelight alone,
See the drifts glitter and hear the wind moan,
Children's fair faces come back through the night,
One and another, the pale and the bright,
Dear to my soul while it loves will they be;
Though when they called “mother!” they did not call me.
Out of the window are wild wastes of snow;
Here as I sit by the firelight alone,
See the drifts glitter and hear the wind moan,
Children's fair faces come back through the night,
One and another, the pale and the bright,
Dear to my soul while it loves will they be;
Though when they called “mother!” they did not call me.
One fell asleep on the fields of the West,
A soldier's blue jacket wrapped over his breast.
No more those dark eyes will brighten for me,
Never again that keen smile shall I see,
Never be clasped in the arms of my boy:
Yet is he mine beyond death to destroy.
Mine in the love that knows future nor past,
Mine while the pulses of tenderness last;
Living and dying my child he will be.
Though when he called “mother!” he did not call me!
A soldier's blue jacket wrapped over his breast.
No more those dark eyes will brighten for me,
Never again that keen smile shall I see,
Never be clasped in the arms of my boy:
Yet is he mine beyond death to destroy.
Mine in the love that knows future nor past,
Mine while the pulses of tenderness last;
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Though when he called “mother!” he did not call me!
One wears a shadow across her fair brow,
But the shadow is brighter than sunbeams are now:
Her tender face softens, her roses grow pale
In the gleam of its whiteness; her own bridal veil.
My loveliest baby! God keep thee as pure
While thy life and thy love shall together endure,
As the first hour I held thee asleep in my arms,
Serene in the halo of babyhood's charms.
God send thee fair children to stand at thy knee,
Who when they say mother, shall say it to thee.
But the shadow is brighter than sunbeams are now:
Her tender face softens, her roses grow pale
In the gleam of its whiteness; her own bridal veil.
My loveliest baby! God keep thee as pure
While thy life and thy love shall together endure,
As the first hour I held thee asleep in my arms,
Serene in the halo of babyhood's charms.
God send thee fair children to stand at thy knee,
Who when they say mother, shall say it to thee.
One is a wanderer over the sea.
When will his footsteps turn shoreward to me?
Others are gathered by fires of their own:
Here, by a stranger's, I'm dreaming alone.
Dreaming of days that forever are dead,
Hopes and caresses and darlings all fled,
Bitterest dreams, that the sweetest might be,
If when they called “mother” they could have called me!
When will his footsteps turn shoreward to me?
Others are gathered by fires of their own:
Here, by a stranger's, I'm dreaming alone.
Dreaming of days that forever are dead,
Hopes and caresses and darlings all fled,
Bitterest dreams, that the sweetest might be,
If when they called “mother” they could have called me!
Two little faces with glittering hair
Ghosts of the past, hover over my chair
Faces I watched over morning and night,
Eyes that once blessed me with deepest delight,
Voices that thrilled to the depths of my soul,
Shake me with longing I cannot control.
Ghosts of the past, hover over my chair
Faces I watched over morning and night,
Eyes that once blessed me with deepest delight,
Voices that thrilled to the depths of my soul,
Shake me with longing I cannot control.
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Oh! if those dear lives should falter and fail
The veins of my heart at their sources would quail:
Life would forsake me though death should forget;
All that I have on their being is set.
Dearer than living or loving they be;
Yet when they call “mother!” they do not call me.
The veins of my heart at their sources would quail:
Life would forsake me though death should forget;
All that I have on their being is set.
Dearer than living or loving they be;
Yet when they call “mother!” they do not call me.
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