THE wise old Mother lets man play a while -- Even as a child with toys -- about the earth, Ere she shall welcome back, with sweet, slow smile, The foolish one to whom her throes gave birth. Tug at his tether as he may, he knows, Deep in his heart, that she is always by; He feels her presence underneath the snows, And in the rain of autumn hears her sigh. The thrill of spring, and summer's tilth the same, Remind him of her breathing breast; the sea Is her unrest; and where the maples flame, She goes decked forth in mood of pleasantry. The more he strays, the longer battles grim With foes or friends, playing man's shifting role, The surelier doth there slow uprise in him The yearning to come back and ease his soul; -- To take her hands and look into her face And kiss her forehead, while he hears her say: "Welcome, my dear, to the old wonted place, Welcome to love, and sleep, and holiday." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...VIRTUE [OR, VERTUE] by GEORGE HERBERT THIS COMPOST: 2. by WALT WHITMAN TO A SISTER OF CHARITY by EDWIN GEORGE ALEXANDER THE CLOUDS: THE OLD EDUCATION by ARISTOPHANES PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 28. AS-BAZIR by EDWIN ARNOLD ARCHEANASSA by ASCLEPIADES OF SAMOS ASPIRATIONS: 9 by MATHILDE BLIND A NEW PILGRIMAGE: 3 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 3 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |