Michael Villiers, Idealist And Other Poems. By E. H. Hickey |
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MOTHERING SUNDAY
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 | Michael Villiers, Idealist |  |
161
MOTHERING SUNDAY
On the trees the tender leafage thrills for glory to be won,
Perfectness of strength and colour, from the touches of the sun;
In the hedges breath of violets, for the spring-time has begun.
Perfectness of strength and colour, from the touches of the sun;
In the hedges breath of violets, for the spring-time has begun.
On the bosom of the willow sheen of golden down is spread;
Little hazel catkins—children call them lambs' tails—overhead;
Aspen blossom swaying, dancing, in a mirth of living red.
Little hazel catkins—children call them lambs' tails—overhead;
Aspen blossom swaying, dancing, in a mirth of living red.
All the country-side a-triumph, from the winter-bonds releast,
Breaks from march of grave iambus into bounding anapaest,
With the gladness of the blossom, mating bird and youngling beast.
Breaks from march of grave iambus into bounding anapaest,
With the gladness of the blossom, mating bird and youngling beast.
162
Mother Nature, all thy sweetness, all thy wonder, taketh hold
Of the spirit till we pause not to remember heat or cold;
All forgetful of the pain and knowing not the growing old.
Of the spirit till we pause not to remember heat or cold;
All forgetful of the pain and knowing not the growing old.
Long ago when earth was thrilling with the rapture of the spring,
And the lovely hope and promise every heart was quickening,
'Prentice boys in merry England used to go a-mothering.
And the lovely hope and promise every heart was quickening,
'Prentice boys in merry England used to go a-mothering.
They would bring their gladsome mothers dainty simnels rich and sweet,
And in many a country hedgerow would those lads a-mothering meet
With the bloom of early violets, by the wayside, at their feet.
And in many a country hedgerow would those lads a-mothering meet
With the bloom of early violets, by the wayside, at their feet.
O my mother, sweet my mother, may I come to you to-day?
Bring my little song to greet you? Are you very far away?
Can you hear me in my singing? Can you hearken what I say?
Bring my little song to greet you? Are you very far away?
Can you hear me in my singing? Can you hearken what I say?
163
It is Mothering Sunday, darling; sunshine beats through gloom of Lent;
And a greater, sweeter sunshine to the mourning heart is sent
That has kept Love's awful vigil and received its sacrament.
And a greater, sweeter sunshine to the mourning heart is sent
That has kept Love's awful vigil and received its sacrament.
Where you are I know not, mother, but am fain to think you dwell
In the beauty and the quiet which you waited for so well—
Whitest sheen and warmth and comfort; God's own peace unspeakable.
In the beauty and the quiet which you waited for so well—
Whitest sheen and warmth and comfort; God's own peace unspeakable.
In the by-and-by, O mother, will the Master let me bring
Some sweet gift by Love made worthy, (Love makes worthy poorest thing)
My beloved, my beloved, when I go a-mothering?
Some sweet gift by Love made worthy, (Love makes worthy poorest thing)
My beloved, my beloved, when I go a-mothering?
| Michael Villiers, Idealist | |