MOTHER
I think it was a girlish hand,
Unlined, well-tended, when it held
At first, my clinging baby hand
In gentle grasps by love impelled.
I think it was a youthful face
That bent above me as I lay
Asleep, and bright the eyes that watched
My rest, in that forgotten day.
I think it was a slender form
That bore my weight on tiring arm,
And swift young feet that watched my steps
To guide them from the ways of harm.
But years and cares have changed that form
And face and hand; have streaked with gray
The hair; yet is the heart as full
Of love as in that other day.
And she has her reward; not fame,
Or baubles bought in any mart,
But motherhood’s brave crown, the love
And homage of her own child’s heart.
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