My mother sate me at her glass; This necklet of bright flowers she wove; Crisscross her gentle hands did pass, And wound in my hair her love. Deep in the mirror our glances met, And grieved, lest from her care I roam, She kissed me through her tears, and set On high this spangling comb. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A HYMN FOR PROCESSION WITH CROSS AND BANNERS by SABINE BARING-GOULD AN OLD WOMAN OF THE ROADS by PADRAIC COLUM TIRED TIM by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE THE VOICELESS by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES TO DOCTOR EMPIRIC by BEN JONSON TIRED MOTHERS by MAY LOUISE RILEY SMITH THERE WAS A GARDEN by MARIE BARTON |