Classic Poem

When from the bow-string of the night
The arrows of the starlight fall,
The memories of dream-music come
With beauty, almost pain.
Their reminiscent tones and cadences,
Haunted with happiness,
Blend with the restful silences
Like distant bell-chimes in the sunset hour.

I saw the red sun painting skyey symphonies
In banners o'er the hills;
Heard slumber-songs,
You swaying, swinging,
Crooningly, tenderly;
Saw deserts and oases,
Hills of green and forests dim,
Far stretching down the years
While the deep consciousness
Of mother-love was surging, singing in my soul.

How well I still remember
The zig-zag butterflies
I gleefully pursued;
The birds I chased away,
Climbing the tree myself
To make the cherries mine;
The white, and purple trilliums
Gathered in the woods
And proudly brought to you!

Last night I had a token in a dream:
You came and laid my tirèd head
Tenderly on your heart.
I rested peaceful there
Dream-folded in your arms,
Babe-wise upon your bosom
Cradled in rhythmic slumber.
The distant past
Came back again, and lo,
You were my mother,
I your baby boy!

Mother of ages, mother of me,
Your voice is the soul of rest—
The trumpet winds and the organ sea:
The billow your heaving breast.

Throned in that cradle of love and dream,
Your arms so soft and warm,
I laugh in the face of the lightning's gleam,
I am glad of the sting of the storm.