I am writing near the lamp. It's fine weather. Pleasant stillness. In her black dress, tiny in the great armchair, Tranquil at the fireside, my mother is there. She's thinking, no doubt, of the dreadful illness That sent me away last winter—but without much worry, For I'm sensible, and stay indoors when there's a flurry. And then, remembering that an October night Can grow cold without any warning, suddenly, She puts a log where the hearth is flaming bright. ... Mother, blessèd among all women may you be! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FOR ONCE, THEN, SOMETHING by ROBERT FROST PHILIP, MY KING by DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK ODES: BOOK 2: ODE 8. AMORET by MARK AKENSIDE TO THE SOLITUDE OF FONTENAY by GUILLAUME AMFRYE AT THE LATTICE by ALFRED AUSTIN |