THE MOTHER

The long dark night crawled slowly on;

I waited patiently,

Knowing at last the sudden dawn,

Sometime, would surely be.

It came,— to tell me everything

Was Winter's quiet slave:

I waited still, aware that Spring

Was strong to come and save.

And then Spring came, and I was glad

A few expectant hours;

Until I learned the things I had

Were only withered flowers

Because there came not with the Spring

As in the ancient days —

The sound of his feet pattering

Along Spring's open ways;

Because his sweetly serious eyes

Looked into mine no more;

Because no more in childish-wise

He brought his gathered store

Of dandelions to my bed,

And violets and grass,—

Deeming I would be comforted

That Spring had come to pass.

And now these unused toys and I

Have little dread or care

For any season that drifts by

The silences we share;

And sometimes, when we think to pray,

Across the vacant years

We see God watching him at play

And pitying our tears.