 | Poems |  |
85
THE MOTHER.
“It may be Autumn, yea Winter, with the woman,—but with the mother, as a mother, it is always Spring.”
Sermon of the Rev. Thomas Cobbet, at Lynn, 1665.
I saw an aged woman bow
To weariness and care,
Time wrote his sorrows on her brow
And 'mid her frosted hair.
To weariness and care,
Time wrote his sorrows on her brow
And 'mid her frosted hair.
Hope, from her breast had torn away
Its rooting scathed and dry,
And on the pleasures of the gay
She turned a joyless eye.
Its rooting scathed and dry,
And on the pleasures of the gay
She turned a joyless eye.
What was it that like sunbeam clear
O'er her wan features run,
As pressing toward her deafened ear
I named her absent son?
O'er her wan features run,
As pressing toward her deafened ear
I named her absent son?
What was it? Ask a mother's breast
Through which a fountain flows
Perennial, fathomless and blest,
By winter never froze.
Through which a fountain flows
Perennial, fathomless and blest,
By winter never froze.
What was it? Ask the King of kings,
Who hath decreed above
That change should mark all earthly things,
Except a mother's love.
Who hath decreed above
That change should mark all earthly things,
Except a mother's love.
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