XXIV

’Tis April, yet the wind retains its tooth. I cannot venture in the biting air, But sit and feign wild trash, and dreams uncouth, “Stretched on the rack of a too easy chair.” And when the day has howled itself to sleep, The lamp is lighted in my little room; And lowly, as the tender lapwings creep, Comes my own mother, with her love’s perfume. O living sons with living mothers! learn Their worth, and use them gently, with no chiding, For youth, I know, is quick; of temper stern Sometimes; and apt to blunder without guiding. So was I long, but now I see her move, Transfigured in the radiant mist of love.