You feel the heart is quickly growing old
And fills with longing when remembrance wakes.
TO MY MOTHER
My mother, aft long rows of years I plant
To-day a sonnet ’neath thy name of gold.
Only a sonnet where hymn I should chant,
But verses, where should sacred prayers be told.
Ah, one must tread adown the path of woe
And bury much in many storm accursed,
Curse all that once he would have fondled so,