She seemed an angel to our infant eye!
Once, when the glorifying moon revealed
Her who at evening by our pillow kneeled -
Soft-voiced and golden-haired, from holy skies
Flown to her loves on wings of Paradise -
We looked to see the pinions half-concealed.
The Tuscan vines and olives will not yield
Her back to me, who loved her in this wise,
And since have little known her, but have grown
To see another mother, tenderly,
Watch over sleeping darlings of her pwn.
Perchance the years have changed her; yet alone
This picture lingers: still she seems to me
The fair, young Angel of my infancy.
Once, when the glorifying moon revealed
Her who at evening by our pillow kneeled -
Soft-voiced and golden-haired, from holy skies
Flown to her loves on wings of Paradise -
We looked to see the pinions half-concealed.
The Tuscan vines and olives will not yield
Her back to me, who loved her in this wise,
And since have little known her, but have grown
To see another mother, tenderly,
Watch over sleeping darlings of her pwn.
Perchance the years have changed her; yet alone
This picture lingers: still she seems to me
The fair, young Angel of my infancy.
~ Edmund Clarence Stedman
No comments:
Post a Comment