Classic Poem

Between my aged mother's hands gleam bright
Her grandson's locks; they seem a handful fair
Of wheat, a golden sheaf beyond compare —
The sun's gold, stolen from the dawn's clear light.

Meanwhile her own white tresses in my sight
Shed brightness all around her in the air —
Foam of Time's wave, a sacred glory rare,
Like spotless eucharistic wafers white.

O flood of gold and silver, full and free!
You make my heart with gladness overrun.
If hatred barks at me, what need I care?

To light my days and nights, where'er I be,
In my child's curls I always have the sun,
The moon in my dear mother's silver hair!