Classic Poem

If there be answer, then this thought
Must shape the answer—that the forms we see,
By whatsoever hand those forms be wrought,
Are wrought for time, not for eternity.

They change, they are fugitive:
But the sweet love that from a mother's eyes
Shines, this shall surely live;
Aye live for ever, though its framework dies.

Time, change,—these count for nought:
The soul outlives the ever-shifting years,
By slow steps towards its victory brought
Through days of triumph, nights of bitter tears.

The thought the forms expressed,
This lives for ever. When all stars wax old
Still will the mother see the hair of gold
Her hand in ages past caressed.

So, mother, though love's earlier phase be o'er,
Though here thy task is done,
Thou art my mother evermore,
I, evermore, thy son.