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Tired Mothers

"Ah," you explain, "she did not know—

This babe of four

Just what it signifies to go."

Do you know more?

Kenton Foster Murray [18

TIRED MOTHERS

A LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee,
Your tired knee that has so much to bear;
A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly
From underneath a thatch of tangled hair.
Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch
Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight;
You do not prize this blessing overmuch,—
You almost are too tired to pray to-night.

But it is blessedness! A year ago

I did not see it as I do to-day,—
We are so dull and thankless; and too slow
To catch the sunshine till it slips away.
And now it seems surpassing strange to me
That, while I wore the badge of motherhood,
I did not kiss more oft and tenderly

The little child that brought me only good.

And if some night when you sit down to rest,
You miss this elbow from your tired knee,-
This restless, curling head from off your breast,—
This lisping tongue that chatters constantly;
If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped,
And ne'er would nestle in your palm again;
If the white feet into their grave had tripped,
I could not blame you for your heartache then!

I wonder so that mothers ever fret

At little children clinging to their gown;
Or that the footprints, when the days are wet,
Are ever black enough to make them frown.

307

If I could find a little muddy boot,

Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber-floor,If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot,

And hear its patter in my house once more,

If I could mend a broken cart to-day,

To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky,
There is no woman in God's world could say
She was more blissfully content than I.
But ah! the dainty pillow next my own

Is never rumpled by a shining head;
My singing birdling from its nest has flown,
The little boy I used to kiss is dead.

May Riley Smith [1842

MY DAUGHTER LOUISE

In the light of the moon, by the side of the water, My seat on the sand and her seat on my knees, We watch the bright billows, do I and my daughter, My sweet little daughter Louise.

We wonder what city the pathway of glory,

That broadens away to the limitless west,

Leads up to-she minds her of some pretty story And says: "To the city that mortals love best." Then I say: "It must lead to the far away city, The beautiful City of Rest."

In the light of the moon, by the side of the water,
Stand two in the shadow of whispering trees,
And one loves my daughter, my beautiful daughter,
My womanly daughter Louise.

She steps to the boat with a touch of his fingers,
And out on the diamonded pathway they move;
The shallop is lost in the distance, it lingers,

It waits, but I know that its coming will prove That it went to the walls of the wonderful city, The magical City of Love.

Sonnets

In the light of the moon, by the side of the water,
I wait for her coming from over the seas;
I wait but to welcome the dust of my daughter,
To weep for my daughter Louise.

309

The path, as of old, reaching out in its splendor,
Gleams bright, like a way that an angel has trod;
I kiss the cold burden its billows surrender,

Sweet clay to lie under the pitiful sod:

But she rests, at the end of the path, in the city
Whose "builder and maker is God."

Homer Greene [1853

"I AM LONELY"

From "The Spanish Gypsy"

THE world is great: the birds all fly from me,
The stars are golden fruit upon a tree
All out of reach: my little sister went,
And I am lonely.

The world is great: I tried to mount the hill
Above the pines, where the light lies so still,
But it rose higher: little Lisa went

And I am lonely.

The world is great: the wind comes rushing by.
I wonder where it comes from; sea birds cry
And hurt my heart: my little sister went,
And I am lonely.

The world is great: the people laugh and talk,
And make loud holiday: how fast they walk!
I'm lame, they push me: little Lisa went,

And I am lonely.

SONNETS

George Eliot [1819-1880]

From "Mimma Bella "

I

HAVE dark Egyptians stolen Thee away,
Oh Baby, Baby, in whose cot we peer
As down some empty gulf that opens sheer
And fathomless, illumined by no ray?

And wilt thou come, on some far distant day,
With unknown face, and say, "Behold! I'm here,
The child you lost;" while we in sudden fear,
Dumb with great doubt, shall find no word to say?
One darker than dark gipsy holds thee fast;
One whose strong fingers none has forced apart
Since first they closed on things that were too fair;
Nor shall we see thee other than thou wast,
But such as thou art printed in the heart,
In changeless baby loveliness still there.

II

Two springs she saw-two radiant Tuscan springs,
What time the wild red tulips are aflame

In the new wheat, and wreaths of young vine frame
The daffodils that every light breeze swings;
And the anemones that April brings

Make purple pools, as if Adonis came

Just there to die; and Florence scrolls her name
In every blossom Primavera flings.

Now, when the scented iris, straight and tall,
Shall hedge the garden gravel once again
With pale blue flags, at May's exulting call,
And when the amber roses, wet with rain,
Shall tapestry the old gray villa wall,
We, left alone, shall seek one bud in vain.

IV

Oh, rosy as the lining of a shell

Were the wee hands that now are white as snows;

And like pink coral, with their elfin toes,

The feet that on life's brambles never fell.

And with its tiny smile, adorable

The mouth that never knew life's bitter sloes;

And like the incurved petal of a rose

The little ear, now deaf in Death's strong spell.

Now, while the seasons in their, order roll,

And sun and rain pour down from God's great dome, And deathless stars shine nightly overhead,

Near other children, with her little doll,

Sonnets

She waits the wizard that will never come

To wake the sleep-struck playground of the dead.

VI

Oh, bless the law that veils the Future's face;
For who could smile into a baby's eyes,

Or bear the beauty of the evening skies,
If he could see what cometh on apace?
The ticking of the death-watch would replace
The baby's prattle, for the over-wise;

The breeze's murmur would become the cries
Of stormy petrels where the breakers race.
We live as moves the walker in his sleep,
Who walks because he sees not the abyss
His feet are skirting as he goes his way:
If we could see the morrow from the steep
Of our security, the soul would miss
Its footing, and fall headlong from to-day.

VIII

One day, I mind me, now that she is dead,
When nothing warned us of the dark decree,
I crooned, to lull her, in a minor key,
Such fancies as first came into my head.
I crooned them low, beside her little bed;
And the refrain was somehow "Come with me,
And we will wander by the purple sea;"

I crooned it, and-God help me!-felt no dread.
O Purple Sea, beyond the stress of storms,
Where never ripple breaks upon the shore

Of Death's pale Isles of Twilight as they dream,
Give back, give back, O Sea of Nevermore,

The frailest of the unsubstantial forms

That leave the shores that are for those that seem!

XX

What essences from Idumean palm,

What ambergris, what sacerdotal wine,

311

What Arab myrrh, what spikenard, would be thine,

If I could swathe thy memory in such balm!

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