JOHN ALLISTER CURRIE
MY MOTHER
THERE are no colors in God's heaven-bent bow,
Nor is there music in the quiring spheres,
Can paint thy smile from out these youthful years,
Recall the music of thy voice so low
And sweet, dear mother, in the long ago.
But gone art thou. Ah! how the bitter tears
Burned deep into my heart! How memory sears,