42
MOTHER MINE.
That mouth was just the mouth that kissed Sir Cradocke under the green wildwood;Fair Rosamond was tall as she was, In those fixed fancies of my childhood.
And when she sang—ah, when she sang! Birds are less sweet, and flutes not clearer—In ancient halls I saw the minstrel, And shapes long dead arose to hear her!
Darlings of song I've heard since then, But no such voice as hers was, swellingLike bell-notes on the winds of morning, All angelhood about it dwelling.
No more within those regions dim Of rich romance my thoughts would place her,Her life itself is such a poem She does not need old names to grace her.
Long years have fled, but left her charm Smiling to see that years are fleeter,Those ballads are as sweet as ever, But she is infinitely sweeter.
