A MOTHER’S PICTURE By Edmund Clarence Stedman

YoungMother

A MOTHER’S PICTURE By Edmund Clarence Stedman

She seemed an angel to our infant eyes!
Once, when the glorifying moon revealed
Her who at evening by our pillow kneeled —
Soft-voiced and golden-haired, from holy skies
Flown to her loves on wings of Paradise —
We looked to see the pinions half-concealed.
The Tuscan vines and olives will not yield
Her back to me, who loved her in this wise,
And since have little known her, but have grown
To see another mother, tenderly,
Watch over sleeping darlings of her own;
Perchance the years have changed her: yet alone
This picture lingers: still she seems to me
The fair, young Angel of my infancy.

BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE By George Bancroft Griffith

If you have a gray-haired mother
In the old home far away,
Sit you down and write the letter
You put off from day to day.
Don’t wait until her weary steps
Reach Heaven’s pearly gate,
But show her that you think of her,
Before it is too late.

If you have a tender message,
Or a loving word to say,
Don’t wait till you forget it,
But whisper it to-day.
Who knows what bitter memories
May haunt you if you wait?
So make your loved one happy
Before it is too late.

The tender word unspoken,
The letters never sent,
The long forgotten messages,
The wealth of love unspent;
For these some hearts are breaking,
For these some loved ones wait;
Show them that you care for them
Before it is too late.

MOTHER AND CHILD By William Gilmore Simms

mother-and-child

MOTHER AND CHILD By William Gilmore Simms

The wind blew wide the casement, and within —
It was the loveliest picture! — a sweet child
Lay in its mother’s arms, and drew its life,
In pauses, from the fountain,— the white round
Part shaded by loose tresses, soft and dark,
Concealing, but still showing, the fair realm
Of so much rapture, as green shadowing trees
With beauty shroud the brooklet. The red lips
Were parted, and the cheek upon the breast
Lay close, and, like the young leaf of the flower,
Wore the same color, rich and warm and fresh:
And such alone are beautiful. Its eye,
A full blue gem, most exquisitely set,
Looked archly on its world,— the little imp,
As if it knew even then that such a wreath
Were not for all; and with its playful hands
It drew aside the robe that hid its realm,
And peeped and laughed aloud, and so it laid
Its head upon the shrine of such pure joys,
And, laughing, slept. And while it slept, the tears
Of the sweet mother fell upon its cheek,—
Tears such as fall from April skies, and bring
The sunlight after. They were tears of joy;
And the true heart of that young mother then
Grew lighter, and she sang unconsciously
The silliest ballad-song that ever yet
Subdued the nursery’s voices, and brought sleep
To fold her sabbath wings above its couch.

MOTHER By Kathleen Norms, 1911

As years ago we carried to your knees
The tales and treasures of eventful days,
Knowing no deed too humble for your praise,
Nor any gift too trivial to please,
So still we bring, with older smiles and tears,
What gifts we may, to claim the old, dear right;
Your faith, beyond the silence and the night,
Your love still close and watching through the years.