Mothers

 ("Regardez: les enfants.") 
 
 {XX., June, 1884.} 


 See all the children gathered there, 
 Their mother near; so young, so fair, 
 An eider sister she might be, 
 And yet she hears, amid their games, 
 The shaking of their unknown names 
 In the dark urn of destiny. 
 
 She wakes their smiles, she soothes their cares, 
 On that pure heart so like to theirs, 
 Her spirit with such life is rife 
 That in its golden rays we see, 
 Touched into graceful poesy, 
 The dull cold commonplace of life. 
 
 Still following, watching, whether burn 
 The Christmas log in winter stern, 
 While merry plays go round; 
 Or streamlets laugh to breeze of May 
 That shakes the leaf to break away— 
 A shadow falling to the ground. 
 
 If some poor man with hungry eyes 
 Her baby's coral bauble spies, 
 She marks his look with famine wild, 
 For Christ's dear sake she makes with joy 
 An alms-gift of the silver toy— 
 A smiling angel of the child. 
 
 Dublin University Magazine 


 

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