Wandering thoughts, like homing birds, Fly all swiftly down the years, To that wide cas.e.m.e.nt, where I always see Bright love-lamps leaning out to welcome me.

Sweet it was, how sweet to go To the worn, familiar door.

No need to stand a while, and wait, Outside the well-remembered gate; No need to knock; The easy lock Turned almost of itself, and so My spirit was "at home" once more.

And then, within, how good to find The same cool atmosphere of peace, Where I, a tired child, might cease To grieve, or dread, Or toil for bread.

I could forget The dreary fret.

The strivings after hopes too high, I let them every one go by.

The ills of life, the blows unkind, These fearsome things were left behind.

ENVOY.

O trembling soul of mine, See how G.o.d's mercies shine!

When thou shalt rise, And, stripped of earth, shall stand Within an Unknown Land; Alone, where no familiar thing May bring familiar comforting; Look up! 'Tis but thy Father's House! And, see His love-lamps leaning out to welcome thee!

To an Old Teapot

Now from the dust of half-forgotten things, You rise to haunt me at the year's Spring- cleaning, And bring to memory dim imaginings Of mystic meaning.

No old-time potter handled you, I ween, Nor yet were you of gold or silver molten; No Derby stamp, nor Worcester, can be seen, Nor Royal Doulton.

You never stood to grace the princely board Of monarchs in some Oriental palace.

Your lid is chipped, your chubby side is scored As if in malice.

I hesitate to say it, but your spout Is with unhandsome rivets held together-- Mute witnesses of treatment meted out In regions nether.

O patient sufferer of many b.u.mps!

I ask it gently--shall the dustbin hold you?

And will the dust-heap, with its cabbage stumps, At last enfold you?

It ought. And yet with gentle hands I place You with my priceless Delft and Dresden china, For sake of one who loved your homely face In days diviner.

To a Rebellious Daughter

You call authority "a grievous thing."

With careless hands you snap the leading string, And, for a frolic (so it seems to you), Put off the old love, and put on the new.

For "What does Mother know of love?"

you say.

"Did her soul ever thrill?

Did little tendernesses ever creep Into her dreams, and over-ride her will?

Did her eyes shine, or her heart ever leap As my heart leaps to-day?

I, who am young; who long to try my wings!

How should she understand, She, with her calm cool hand?

She never felt such yearnings? And, beside, It's clear I can't be tied For ever to my mother's ap.r.o.n strings."

There are Infinities of Knowledge, dear.

And there are mysteries, not yet made clear To you, the Uninitiate. . . . Life's book Is open, yes; but you may only look At its first section. Youth Is part, not all, the truth.

It is impossible that you should see The end from the beginning perfectly.

You answer: "Even so.

But how can Mother know, Who meditates upon the price of bacon?

On 'liberties' the charwoman has taken, And on the laundry's last atrocities?

She knows her cookery book, And how a joint of English meat should look.

But all such things as these Make up her life. She dwells in tents, but I In a vast temple open to the sky."

Yet, time was, when that Mother stooped to learn The language written in your infant face.

For years she walked your pace, And none but she interpreted your chatter.

Who else felt interest in such pitter-patter?

Or, weary, joined in all your games with zest, And managed with a minimum of rest?

Now, is it not your turn To bridge the gulf, to span the gap be- tween you?

To-day, before Death's angel over-lean you, Before your chance is gone?

This is worth thinking on.

"Are mothers blameless, then?" Nay, dearie, nay.

Nor even tactful, always. Yet there may Come some grey dawning in the by and by, When, no more brave, nor sure, nor strong, you'll cry Aloud to G.o.d, for that despised thing, The old dear comfort--Mother's ap.r.o.n string.

For Mothering!

Up to the Hall, my lady there'll wear her satin gown, For little Miss and Master'll be coming down from town.

Oh ay, the childern's coming! The CHILDERN did I say?

Of course, they're man and woman grown, this many and many a day.

But still, my lady's mouth do smile, and squire looks fit to sing, As Master John and Miss Elaine is coming Mothering.

Then down to Farmer Westacott's, there's doings fine and grand, Because young Jake is coming home from sea, you understand.

Put into port but yesternight, and when he steps ash.o.r.e, 'Tis coming home the laddie is, to Somer- set once more.

And so her's baking spicy cakes, and stir- ring raisins in, To welcome of her only chick, who's coming Mothering.

And what of we? And ain't we got no childern for to come?

Well, yes! There's Sam and Henery, and they'll be coming home.

And Ned is very nigh six foot, and Joe is six foot three!

But childern still to my good man, and childern still to me!

And all the vi'lets seem to know, and all the thrushes sing, As how our Kate, and Bess and Flo is coming Mothering.