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To Mother

I would that you should know,

Dear mother, that I love you -- love you so!

That I remember other days and years;

Remember childish joys and childish fears.

And this, because my baby's little hand

Opened my own heart's door and made me understand.

I wonder how you could

Be always kind and good!

So quick to hear; to tend

My smallest ills; to lend

Such sympathising ears

Swifter than ancient seer's.

I never yet knew hands so soft and kind,

Nor any cheek so smooth, nor any mind

So full of tender thoughts. . . . Dear mother, now

I think that I can guess a little how

You must have looked for some response, some sign,

That all my tiresome wayward heart was thine.

And sure it was! You were my first dear love!

You who first pointed me to God above;

You who seemed hearkening to my lightest word,

And in the dark night seasons always heard

When I came trembling, knocking at your door.

Forgive me, mother, if my whims outwore

Your patient heart. Or if in later days

I sought out foolish unfamiliar ways;

If ever, mother dear, I loosed my hold

Of your loved hand; or, headstrong, thought you cold,

Forgive me, mother! Oh, forgive me, dear!

I am come back at last -- you see me here,

Your loving child. . . . And, mother, on my knee

I pray that thus my child may think of me!