Poems (Sharpless)/Mother Earth

by Frances M. Sharpless

MOTHER EARTH

Borne on thy broad brown bosom, mother earth,
 Among the stars we fly,
While dark with woe, or gay with hope and mirth
 The wingèd Hours sweep by.

Thou blind, mysterious mother of our race,
 With throbbing heart and brain
I seek the meaning on thy changing face
 Of all life's woe and pain.

But all in vain; thy transmutations strange
 In one wide circle caught,
Tell us of change, of birth, of death—but change
 That paralyzes thought.

Rocked on thy bosom, lo! our little life
 Flees like a troubled dream;
Then folded in thy arms from pain and strife
 We sleep by wood or stream.

Thine is the fading frame, at last to pass
 In thy capacious breast
Into, perchance, some flow'ret of the grass,
 Around a wild bird's nest.

But never thine this ardent, living soul
 That clings to thee, yet spurns thy utmost bliss—
A Prince disherited that yields control
 To nought that lower is.

To perfect purpose, see thy tiniest bud
 And smallest leaf unroll;—
But never to its utmost height of good
 Hath reached a human soul.

That feeble, royal chrysalis shall yet
 Unfold afar, in holier realms above;
While thou, a planet dead, for aye has set,
 We live in God's dear love.

Oh! love and thanks, first mother of our race;
 The dearer that we know,
We are thy foster children for a space,
 Ere to our Home we go.