Classic Poem

I love old mothers—mothers with white hair
—And kindly eyes, and lips grown soft and sweet
With murmured blessings over sleeping babes.
—There is something in their quiet grace
That speaks the calm of Sabbath afternoons;
—A knowledge in their deep, unfaltering eyes
That far outreaches all philosophy.

Time, with caressing touch about them weaves
—The silver-threaded fairy-shawl of age,
While all the echoes of forgotten songs
—Seemed joined to lend sweetness to their speech.

Old mothers! as they pass with slow-timed step,
—Their trembling hands cling gently to youth's strength.
Sweet mothers!—as they pass, one sees again
—Old garden-walks, old roses, and old loves.

I love old mothers—mothers with white hair
—And kindly eyes, and lips grown soft and sweet
With murmured blessings over sleeping babes.
—There is something in their quiet grace
That speaks the calm of Sabbath afternoons;
—A knowledge in their deep, unfaltering eyes
That far outreaches all philosophy.

Time, with caressing touch about them weaves
—The silver-threaded fairy-shawl of age,
While all the echoes of forgotten songs
—Seemed joined to lend sweetness to their speech.

Old mothers! as they pass with slow-timed step,
—Their trembling hands cling gently to youth's strength.
Sweet mothers!—as they pass, one sees again
—Old garden-walks, old roses, and old loves.

I love old mothers—mothers with white hair
—And kindly eyes, and lips grown soft and sweet
With murmured blessings over sleeping babes.
—There is something in their quiet grace
That speaks the calm of Sabbath afternoons;
—A knowledge in their deep, unfaltering eyes
That far outreaches all philosophy.

Time, with caressing touch about them weaves
—The silver-threaded fairy-shawl of age,
While all the echoes of forgotten songs
—Seemed joined to lend sweetness to their speech.

Old mothers! as they pass with slow-timed step,
—Their trembling hands cling gently to youth's strength.
Sweet mothers!—as they pass, one sees again
—Old garden-walks, old roses, and old loves.

I love old mothers—mothers with white hair
—And kindly eyes, and lips grown soft and sweet
With murmured blessings over sleeping babes.
—There is something in their quiet grace
That speaks the calm of Sabbath afternoons;
—A knowledge in their deep, unfaltering eyes
That far outreaches all philosophy.

Time, with caressing touch about them weaves
—The silver-threaded fairy-shawl of age,
While all the echoes of forgotten songs
—Seemed joined to lend sweetness to their speech.

Old mothers! as they pass with slow-timed step,
—Their trembling hands cling gently to youth's strength.
Sweet mothers!—as they pass, one sees again
—Old garden-walks, old roses, and old loves.