To Mother
Naught my heart can sever
From my little mother —
Poor and small, but ever
Dearer than all other.
Should base birth malign her,
I'd refuse to hear it:
Love would still enshrine her
In my honest spirit.
Were she wizened smaller
Than a dwarf's shrunk seeming,
Still my heart would call her
Dear beyond all dreaming.
From my little mother —
Poor and small, but ever
Dearer than all other.
Should base birth malign her,
I'd refuse to hear it:
Love would still enshrine her
In my honest spirit.
Were she wizened smaller
Than a dwarf's shrunk seeming,
Still my heart would call her
Dear beyond all dreaming.
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