"In my father's house!" The words
Bring sweet cadence to my ears.
Wandering thoughts, like homing birds,
Fly all swiftly down the years,
To that wide casement, where I always see
Bright love-lamps leaning out to welcome
me.
Sweet it was, how sweet to go
To the worn, familiar door.
No need to stand a while, and wait,
Outside the well-remembered gate;
No need to knock;
The easy lock
Turned almost of itself, and so
My spirit was "at home" once more.
And then, within, how good to find
The same cool atmosphere of peace,
Where I, a tired child, might cease
To grieve, or dread,
Or toil for bread.
I could forget
The dreary fret.
The strivings after hopes too high,
I let them every one go by.
The ills of life, the blows unkind,
These fearsome things were left behind.
ENVOY.
O trembling soul of mine,
See how God's mercies shine!
When thou shalt rise,
And, stripped of earth, shall stand
Within an Unknown Land;
Alone, where no familiar thing
May bring familiar comforting;
Look up! 'Tis but thy Father's
House! And, see
His love-lamps leaning out to welcome
thee!
To an Old Teapot
Now from the dust of half-forgotten
things,
You rise to haunt me at the year's Spring-
cleaning,
And bring to memory dim imaginings
Of mystic meaning.
No old-time potter handled you, I ween,
Nor yet were you of gold or silver molten;
No Derby stamp, nor Worcester, can be
seen,
Nor Royal Doulton.
You never stood to grace the princely
board
Of monarchs in some Oriental palace.
Your lid is chipped, your chubby side is
scored
As if in malice.
I hesitate to say it, but your spout
Is with unhandsome rivets held together—
Mute witnesses of treatment meted out
In regions nether.
O patient sufferer of many bumps!
I ask it gently—shall the dustbin hold
you?
And will the dust-heap, with its cabbage
stumps,
At last enfold you?
It ought. And yet with gentle hands I
place
You with my priceless Delft and Dresden
china,
For sake of one who loved your homely
face
In days diviner.
To a Rebellious
Daughter
You call authority "a grievous thing."
With careless hands you snap the
leading string,
And, for a frolic (so it seems to you),
Put off the old love, and put on the new.
For "What does Mother know of love?"
you say.
"Did her soul ever thrill?
Did little tendernesses ever creep
Into her dreams, and over-ride her will?
Did her eyes shine, or her heart ever leap
As my heart leaps to-day?
I, who am young; who long to try my
wings!
How should she understand,
She, with her calm cool hand?
She never felt such yearnings? And,
beside,
It's clear I can't be tied
For ever to my mother's apron strings."
There are Infinities of Knowledge, dear.
And there are mysteries, not yet made
clear
To you, the Uninitiate. . . . Life's book
Is open, yes; but you may only look
At its first section. Youth
Is part, not all, the truth.
It is impossible that you should see
The end from the beginning perfectly.
You answer: "Even so.
But how can Mother know,
Who meditates upon the price of bacon?
On 'liberties' the charwoman has taken,
And on the laundry's last atrocities?
She knows her cookery book,
And how a joint of English meat should
look.
But all such things as these
Make up her life. She dwells in tents,
but I
In a vast temple open to the sky."
Yet, time was, when that Mother stooped
to learn
The language written in your infant face.
For years she walked your pace,
And none but she interpreted your chatter.
Who else felt interest in such pitter-patter?
Or, weary, joined in all your games with
zest,
And managed with a minimum of rest?
Now, is it not your turn
To bridge the gulf, to span the gap be-
tween you?
To-day, before Death's angel over-lean
you,
Before your chance is gone?
This is worth thinking on.
"Are mothers blameless, then?" Nay,
dearie, nay.
Nor even tactful, always. Yet there may
Come some grey dawning in the by
and by,
When, no more brave, nor sure, nor strong,
you'll cry
Aloud to God, for that despised thing,
The old dear comfort—Mother's apron
string.
For Mothering!
Up to the Hall, my lady there'll wear
her satin gown,
For little Miss and Master'll be coming
down from town.
Oh ay, the childern's coming! The
CHILDERN did I say?
Of course, they're man and woman grown,
this many and many a day.
But still, my lady's mouth do smile, and
squire looks fit to sing,
As Master John and Miss Elaine is coming
Mothering.
Then down to Farmer Westacott's, there's
doings fine and grand,
Because young Jake is coming home from
sea, you understand.
Put into port but yesternight, and when
he steps ashore,
'Tis coming home the laddie is, to Somer-
set once more.
And so her's baking spicy cakes, and stir-
ring raisins in,
To welcome of her only chick, who's
coming Mothering.
And what of we? And ain't we got no
childern for to come?
Well, yes! There's Sam and Henery,
and they'll be coming home.
And Ned is very nigh six foot, and Joe is
six foot three!
But childern still to my good man, and
childern still to me!
And all the vi'lets seem to know, and all
the thrushes sing,
As how our Kate, and Bess and Flo is
coming Mothering.