MOTHER MINE.
43
For love, that shines through all her ways, Hinders the stealthy hours from duty,A soul divinely self-forgetful Has come to blossom in her beauty.
While the low brow, the silver curl, The twilight glance, the perfect features,The rose upon a creamy pallor, Make her the loveliest of creatures.
Now with the glow that, on the face Like moonlight on a flower, has found her,With the tone's thrill, a faint remoteness, Half like a halo hangs around her.
Half like a halo? Nay, indeed, I never saw a picture painted—Such holy work the years have rendered— So like a woman that is sainted!
