COME to me, O my Mother! come to me, Thine own son slowly dying far away! Through the moist ways of the wide ocean, blown By great invisible winds, come stately ships To this calm bay for quiet anchorage; They come, they rest awhile, they go away, But, O my Mother, never comest thou! The snow is round thy dwelling, the white snow, That cold soft revelation pure as light, And the pine-spur is mystically fringed, Laced with incrusted silver. Here--ah me!-- The winter is decrepit, underborn, A leper with no power but his disease. Why am I from thee, Mother, far from thee? Far from the frost enchantment, and the woods Jewelled from bough to bough? O home, my home! O river in the valley of my home, With mazy-winding motion intricate, Twisting thy deathless music underneath The polished ice-work,--must I nevermore Behold thee with familiar eyes, and watch Thy beauty changing with the changeful day, Thy beauty constant to the constant change? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...COUNTRY SUMMER by LEONIE ADAMS TO DANTE by VITTORIO AMEDEO ALFIERI DIRGE OF RORY O'MORE; 1642 by AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE JUGGLING JERRY by GEORGE MEREDITH EROTION by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE CHRIST'S KINGDOM AMONG THE GENTILES by ISAAC WATTS LAST WORDS by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON THE WANDERER: PROLOGUE. PART 1 by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |