The Mother by Francis Sherman — Read

The long dark night crawled slowly on; / I waited patiently, / Knowing at last the sudden dawn, / Sometime, would surely be.

It came, -- to tell me everything / Was Winter's quiet slave: / I waited still, aware that Spring / Was strong to come and save.

And then Spring came, and I was glad / A few expectant hours; / Until I learned the things I had / Were only withered flowers

Because there came not with the Spring / As in the ancient days -- / The sound of his feet pattering / Along Spring's open ways;

Because his sweetly serious eyes / Looked into mine no more; / Because no more in childish-wise / He brought his gathered store

Of dandelions to my bed, / And violets and grass, -- / Deeming I would be comforted / That Spring had come to pass.

And now these unused toys and I / Have little dread or care / For any season that drifts by / The silences we share;

And sometimes, when we think to pray, / Across the vacant years / We see God watching him at play / And pitying our tears.