Bride of a week, my arms, unused to holding,
Clasp a bright boy that sits upon my knee;
And to my neck a brown-haired girl is clinging,
Calling me mamma — strange it seems to me!

The boy's brown eyes look up to mine in wonder
To see the tears fall softly, one by one,
Upon his shining curls. I fold him closer,
And ponder well my work, just begun.

Oh, what am I, that I have undertaken
This thing so great, and that so few can do —
Always to act the mother true and tender,
Without the throbbing bliss that mother's know;

And this is why I sit here softly weeping,
One clinging to my neck, one to my knee;
Trembling lest human weakness shrink and falter,
Thinking they have no mother now but me!


Another twilight. Springs have bloomed and faded,
Long summers trailed their glory o'er the land;
Again I sit and think. A tall young stripling
Kneels at my side, and closely clasps my hand.

The same brown eyes, alight with loving glances,
The same bright curls that decked the baby boy —
And fair eighteen, with merry, teasing kisses,
Toys with my hair, and laughs in girlish joy.

They say that I have been a faithful mother,
They say that I have done my duty well.
And yet I know — which they do not — the failures,
The staggering weakness that no tongue can tell!

Adown the backward years so many errors
Start up to view before my searching eyes!
I know that I have not been always tender,
Always unselfish, nor yet always wise.

But one has stood, a tower of strength beside me —
He for whose sake I took my work to do.
When for an hour I have failed and faltered,
His arm upbore, his love sustained me through.

And now, e'en knowing, as I know the failures,
The war with self, the faith oft faint and dim;
Could all these years be blotted — were I standing
Unfettered, free, still would I dare — for him.