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 bumps!
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 apron 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 God, for that despised thing,
The old dear comfort—Mother's apron
string.