Mother

My gracious, gentle mother I wonder if she knew How much was taken from us When she departed, too? When bitter disappointments Would come all thru the years She had the gift of laughter That banished all our tears. "What does it matter, child?" she'd say, "The best is yet to come." Her voice, all lilting cadences, Her face a saintly poem . . . One marveled that a heart so gay Could also be so wise— And violets of Kerry Were blooming in her eyes.

Obvious magnificence Rarely moved her much; Did it seem affected? I only know the touch Of Spring in that first twilight That watches Winter pass, Or sprinkling of daisies There in the dewy grass, Could fill her with soft rapture, Some secret inner spring Would vibrate as to music And oh, how she could sing! Some source of strength she surely reached Spirit lost in song, When rich tones of her lovely voice Winged up thru every room;

Intent upon some simple task Unconscious of its charms Or crooning quaint lullabies, A child rocked in her arms. When pain's grim hand descended Or problems were in sight Her dauntless courage towered, And made the load seem light. Then, with her children singing— All six in lusty parts On firelit Christmas mornings . . . Dear memory in our hearts! My gracious, gentle mother, I wonder if you know How much you left here with us? But, oh, I miss you so!