Page:Poems Barrett.djvu/275

Thou art younger by seven years—
 All! so bashful at my gaze,
That the lashes, hung with tears,
 Grow too heavy to upraise?
 I would wound thee by no touch
 Which thy shyness feels as such—
 Dost thou mind me, Dear, so much?

Have I not been nigh a mother
 To thy sweetness—tell me, Dear?
Have we not loved one another
 Tenderly, from year to year;
 Since our dying mother mild
 Said with accents undefiled,
 "Child, be mother to this child"?

Mother, mother, up in heaven,
 Stand up on the jasper sea,
And be witness I have given
 All the gifts required of me;—
 Hope that blessed me, bliss that crowned,
 Love, that left me with a wound,
 Life itself, that turneth round!

Mother, mother, thou art kind,
 Thou art standing in the room,—
In a molten glory shrined,
 That rays off into the gloom!
 But thy smile is bright and bleak
 Like cold waves—I cannot speak;
 I sob in it, and grow weak.

Ghostly mother, keep aloof
 One hour longer from my soul—
For I still am thinking of
 Earth's warm-beating joy and dole!
 On my finger is a ring
 Which I still see glittering,
 When the night hides everything.