THE MOTHER
BY TIMOTHY COLE
DEAR solacer and goddess of the hearth,
O mother! whose enfolding arms and breast
Cradle the infant world from dawn’s fair birth
To the sun’s ripening noon with loving girth;
How oft, in dreaming, of thy sheltering rest,
Whose ingle-glow now kindles to new worth
Our souls, we see thy phantom figure blest,
Still ministrant, in light and beauty dressed.
Where light is, thitherward the spirit tends:
Mankind were yet within the womb of night,
From joy imprison’d save for thy sweet might,
Save for the flame thy love forever lends.
While beacon-like thy fire throws its spark,
We shall not fear, though all the world grow dark.
Color-Tone, engraved for THE CENTURY by H. C. Merrill and H. Davidson
“’YOU’RE ALIVE, THANK HEAVEN!... SHALL I SEND FOR A PARSON?’”
DRAWN BY HARRY RALEIGH
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