  RIPENED FRUITI KNOW not what my heart has lost, I cannot strike the chords of old; The breath that charmed my morning life Hath chilled each leaf within the wold. The swallows twitter in the sky, But bare the nest beneath the eaves; The fledglings of my care are gone, And left me but the rustling leaves. And yet, I know my life hath strength, And firmer hope and sweeter prayer, For leaves that murmur on the ground Have now for me a double care. I see in them the hope of spring, That erst did plan the autumn day; I see in them each gift of man Grow strong in years, then turn to clay. Not all is lost—the fruit remains That ripened through the summer's ray; The nurslings of the nest are gone, Yet hear we still their warbling lay. The glory of the summer sky May change to tints of autumn hue; But faith that sheds its amber light Will lend our heaven a tender blue. O altar of eternal youth! O faith that beckons from afar! Give to our lives a blossomed fruit— Give to our morns an evening star! O SWEET unto my heart is the song my mother sings As eventide is brooding on its dark and noiseless wings! Every note is charged with memory—every memory bright with rays Of the golden hours of promise in the lap of childhood's days. The orchard blooms anew, and each blossom scents the way, And I feel again the breath of eve among the new-mown hay; While through the halls of memory in happy notes there rings All the life-joy of the past in the song my mother sings. I have listened to the dreamy notes of Chopin and of Liszt, As they dripped and drooped about my heart and filled my eyes with mist; I have wept strong tears of pathos 'neath the spell of Verdi's power, As I heard the tenor voice of grief from out the donjon tower; And Gounod's oratorios are full of notes sublime That stir the heart with rapture thro' the sacred pulse of time; But all the music of the past, and the wealth that memory brings, Seem as nothing when I listen to the song my mother sings. It's a song of love and triumph, it's a song of toil and care, It is filled with chords of pathos, and it's set in notes of prayer; It is bright with dreams and visions of the days that are to be, And as strong in faith's devotion as the heart-beat of the sea; It is linked in mystic measure to sweet voices from above, And is starred with ripest blessing thro' a mother's sacred love. O sweet and strong and tender are the memories that it brings, As I list in joy and rapture to the song my mother sings! |
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