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 | Drifted in |  |
Then rose a motherly looking dame—
One who no doubt the cradle had rocked
That “rocks the world”; with laurels of fame
Her gray hair never had been enlocked;
But what is that, on this planet-ball
That men can compass ere they read all
The novel they opened the morn they sailed?
And think of more planets—each one an earth—
And the “fixed” stars—through ether trailed—
All suns, with planets of varied worth—
And tell me, you who would give your eyes
For this earth's fame—are you really wise?
This very woman perhaps has done
Her womanly-duty, in her small way,
In her small town: she may not be known
Outside the burdens that crush her down,
But all through her life, discreetly good,
She faithfully “hath done what she could”,
And though not lauded through trumpets of clay,
Perhaps is famous in Heaven today.
And, whether or not, we will let her weave
A story of Christmas morn and eve:
One who no doubt the cradle had rocked
That “rocks the world”; with laurels of fame
Her gray hair never had been enlocked;
But what is that, on this planet-ball
That men can compass ere they read all
The novel they opened the morn they sailed?
And think of more planets—each one an earth—
And the “fixed” stars—through ether trailed—
All suns, with planets of varied worth—
And tell me, you who would give your eyes
For this earth's fame—are you really wise?
This very woman perhaps has done
Her womanly-duty, in her small way,
In her small town: she may not be known
Outside the burdens that crush her down,
But all through her life, discreetly good,
She faithfully “hath done what she could”,
And though not lauded through trumpets of clay,
Perhaps is famous in Heaven today.
And, whether or not, we will let her weave
A story of Christmas morn and eve:
| Drifted in | |