A little book of tribune verse A number of hitherto uncollected poems, grave and gay |
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PLEASURES OF MEMORY. |
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 | A little book of tribune verse |  |
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PLEASURES OF MEMORY.
You asked me of your mother, child,
Your mother whose fair form is dust,
Whose soul is with the saints, I trust,
Why, as you asked me that and smiled,
Methought I saw in your young face
A sweet reflection of her grace.
Your mother whose fair form is dust,
Whose soul is with the saints, I trust,
Why, as you asked me that and smiled,
Methought I saw in your young face
A sweet reflection of her grace.
Oh, she was nobly, grandly fair,
Her eyes were as the heaven's blue,
Her hair was of a golden hue,
Her ruby lips beyond compare,
O child, your mother in her day,
'Mongst beauties held the beauties' sway.
Her eyes were as the heaven's blue,
Her hair was of a golden hue,
Her ruby lips beyond compare,
O child, your mother in her day,
'Mongst beauties held the beauties' sway.
And was she gentle, child, as thou?
Why wrench the arrows in my heart,
Why bid the burning tear-drops start!
O child, methinks I see her now,
Waiting down by the wicket gate
As years agone she used to wait.
Why wrench the arrows in my heart,
Why bid the burning tear-drops start!
O child, methinks I see her now,
Waiting down by the wicket gate
As years agone she used to wait.
Why do I weep? Who would not weep,
To think of how she waited there
Till she could grip me by the hair
And in her wifely fashion sweep
The garden walk with my poor frame;
Patience was your sweet mother's name.
To think of how she waited there
Till she could grip me by the hair
And in her wifely fashion sweep
The garden walk with my poor frame;
Patience was your sweet mother's name.
March 6th, 1882.
| A little book of tribune verse | |