Mother

 

The ravages of winter seam her face

Where tears like mountain becks once coursed her cheek,

But still there lingers an autumnal grace

Like westering sunlight on a snowy peak.

 

And though her spring and summer are long past

There yet remain the flowers of her prime;

Nor can they ever fade though rough the blast;

She owns a joy that mocks the march of time.

 

And though her brood has left her and gone out

To use or not as they intend the lore

She poured into their minds, she does not doubt

That in them and their children it grows more.

 

Her garner store is rich with harvest gold;

The seeds she planted in the soil of youth

Will bear in days to be a hundredfold

Till time itself is swallowed up in truth.