A MOTHER’S HEART

She stood before the olden maze Each soul must tread alone; She knew these were the unseen ways That lead to things unknown: She knew hers was a road apart, No one of us had trod; Then unafraid, and strong of heart, A little girl sought God.

Whether my Love be near, Or whether, the vision gone, My faltering feet shall fear The road that stretches on; Whether with throngs I pace The street, the busy mart, Or hide me for a space In my most secret heart; Matins, in one shrin’d room; At pensive evensong; In gladness as in gloom; Or brief my task, or long; Lord, order now my days, That all my living shall, In living, loving ways, Build Love’s Memorial!

Duty was ne’er so sweetly dight For me, blue sky was ne’er so near, And Beauty ne’er has bloomed so bright As now, in this my sorrowing year. Fair daffodils, and singing brooks, And children, rosy from their play Have never given me starrier looks Than now, on this my saddest day. The Godward hymn of hermit thrush Now thrills, beyond my past belief; Lovely the lilac, leaf and flush, In this the Springtime of my grief. Gray things are golden now and grand; No blight is here that may not bless; And tasks low-lying ’neath my hand Transfigured are to holiness. Now that her wing must mourning go,— O miracle,—my struggling soul Is grown more swift and strong to know Which thing is stain, which aureole. Since thou didst see the thorns entwirled, O Mary, o’er that shining Head, Hath not each rose-heart in the world For thee, a deeper fragrance shed?

O rose-tree, like a person, thou Whose pulsing presence at my gate Oft startles me to wonder now If thou be one for whom I wait, The Westwind flings thy shade a-dance Oft, oft across my echoing floor, And all my heart cries out, “Perchance—” And leaps to open wide the door! What if, we being unaware That miracles once more might be, An angel-shape were standing there, And no one, no one turned to see— What if a little golden head Looked lonely ’gainst the far blue sky, And shining steps, uncomforted And all unwatched, went wandering by! O Rose-tree, that is why I start, Whene’er thy shadows flit and pass To dance a moment on my heart, Then vanish through the window glass.

Remembering thee, my life’s clear song, Psalm of my soul, my heart’s full roundelay, Remembering thee, alway! Ever with love I list, when cometh Spring, All birds that sing; But when yon sparrowy one, with chant divine, Brings her small spray, her secret nest to twine, Beside my door, and lingers long As fearing hurt or wrong, I pine, I pine, Remembering thee! Remembering thee, my life’s fair flower, Thou lily of my soul, rose of my heart, Remembering thee, apart! No less I love all blossoms of the earth Where thou hadst birth; But when I see the orange wreath adorn Pure foreheads even as thine, mine own firstborn, In that brave consecrated hour Of ring and marriage bower, I mourn, I mourn, Remembering thee! Remembering thee, my roundelay, my psalm, My rose that was, my lily wholly star— Nay, but how sadder far Were thy forgetting! Days, how darker yet, Could I forget! What sobbing moonlights, what heartbreaking dawns Would then steal far, over these lovely lawns That now await, in dayspring’s balm, At noon, at curfew calm, A footfall like the fawn’s, Remembering thee!

A wind went wailing through the wood, Went wailing without tears, As one who in that same hour should Face hostile ghosts of years: And if a wind may clasp the trees, Nor bring them gift of rain, In change for their sweet listening ease, Where shall I ease my pain? Therefore it was my flowers I sought, For look or word from them; The evening’s tears a broidery wrought On my sad garment’s hem; But like the wind, I could not weep— No tears came to my eyes, Save in some strange and snatchèd sleep My soul they might surprise. O all ye kindred growing things, If roses, or if rue, Show me the blessed sign that brings To earth, the holy dew! Or pale in pall of purity, Or glowing from your moss, Ye make no sign at all to me Of sorrow, or the cross? And will ye not by any spell That’s in your bud or leaf, A sorrowing soul a moment tell What ye may know of grief? All silent, all so calm to see, And radiant, dry-eyed! Nay, now, one turning spake to me, And of the Crucified. Of the four flowerets she bore, One westward waned, one east; And one, sky-pointing, looked her lore Of the Ascension feast. And even as she looked, I heard— (Nay, who spake, if not she?) As to the wind, one only word, Saying, Gethsemane. Far in the deep and shadowy wood, Hark, hark, the tender rain: O Wind, for thee and me it could Perchance bring ease again!

“Not here, but risen,” so reply The Shining Ones, still standing by The holy place where God was laid, And holy women, unafraid, Seek Him whom men did crucify. So are the nestlings I could spy Once in this nest, now bare, awry, And very silent in the shade!— Not here, but risen. Home of my heart, where often I Shall list her footsteps, sometimes nigh, Yet sometimes—oh, how far they fade!— Will not the music once they made Send back in echo, one soft sigh, “Not here, but risen?”

Oh, she who was so good and glad Would never take from us the cheer, The lovely pleasantness we had While she was here. And it would hurt her heart to know That no one sings here any more; We must not all too stilly go By her dear door. Since it would grieve her overmuch To think of us as otherwise Than valiant, let us then be such, And lift our eyes. But oh, we know that she will guess How sorrowful and strange we are, Around the fire, with one chair less, And one child far!

Father, when from the deeps thy children call, In grief resigning all, We touch once more thy hand, O Infinite, And haply take from it, To wear, a little space, Infinity, Which as a wing shall be: For Grief shall rise on exaltation’s wing, When in her throbbing Spring, No less than Joy. O’er daily things of earth, Grief soars aloft at birth; The stricken heart, quickened with heavenly power, Rebounds from earth’s dark hour. But when the changing year is fully sped, With Spring and Summer fled, With gold and purple of October heaths Hidden in silver wreaths; When the white snow-drift shall dissolve its snows Into the Whitsun rose; When once again from the flush bough is heard The oriole’s promised word; When once again gay garlands are begun, Blithe tasks for all save one; When festal footsteps to the dance are pressed Once more, save those loved best; Ah, then Grief’s pinion, from that ether far, Droops, as a falling star To earth. The soul shall doff her wings, those days, Yet not her glory rays, To walk, with children of the earth, their road, To dwell in their abode; Days dark and difficult to share with them, Trailing her starry hem In lowlier confines, realms less seeming-fair Than those of upper air. And if to earth returning Summer’s feet May bring a message sweet, No less, O Soul, may thy returning pace Hallow this dwelling-place With something of the love and light that glow Where lately thou didst go; O Soul, in thy returning, thou shalt see Glad opportunity!