The years may enter noTher shrine;
Forever fair and young she stands,
And with her gracious, girlish hands
Folds tenderly the child divine.

Her lips are warm with mother-love
And blessedness, and from her eyes
Looks the mute, questioning surprise
Of one who hears a voice above.

Life's voices, — from the throng apart,
Listens to God's low-whispered word
(Strange message by no other heard),
And keeps his secret in her heart.

Sweet maiden-mother, years have fled
Since the great painter dropped his brush,
Left earth's loud praise for heaven's kind hush,
While men bewailed him, early dead, —

Yet mothers kneel before thee still
Uplifting happy hearts; or, wild
With cruel loss, reach toward thy child
Void arms for the Christ-love to fill.

Time waits without the sacred spot
Where fair and young the mother stands;
Time waits, and bars with jealous hands
The door where years may enter not.