Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Mother, for months a mist has been before me,
And I have sought, in memory, to bind
All objects loved, ere darkness gathered o'er me,
For in my heart, I felt I would be blind.

I am so young, my Mother, that my sorrow
Is fraught with bitter anguish of despair;
How can I bear to think, that each to-morrow
Will robe in darkness all earth's beauties rare!

I feel a sunbeam, Mother, resting on me;
I take the omen to my breaking heart—
For thy sweet voice, thy loving hand upon me,
Will to thy son bright rays of light impart.

118

'Tis said that beauties, Mother, grow still fairer,
When looked upon through vista of past years,
And that joy's paintings seem still brighter, rarer,
Their colors set by sorrow's briny tears.

On memory's tablet, Mother, I have flowers
More beautiful than artist's cherished gems—
And bright tipped clouds of twilight quiet hours,
More prized by me than countless diadems.

And trees of Autumn, with their hues e'er changing,
And then the gentle budding green of Spring
Will keep my thoughts from ever, ever ranging
To leafless boughs that winter's blasts e'er bring

And I have faces passing sweet, too, Mother—
More holy than Corregio's fair saint;
Yes, I have drawn thy image, sister, brother,
And thine too, Mother, without earthly taint.

119

And, Mother, now too surely I am dreaming:
Sweet Lily's eyes will soon become my light,—
No, 'tis no dream, and earth with joy is teeming,
For Lily promised to be mine last night.