I love old mothers-mothers with white hair,
And kindly eyes, and lips grown softly sweet
With murmured blessings over sleeping babes.
There is a something in their quiet grace
That speaks the calm of Sabbath afternoons;
A knowledge in their deep, unfaltering eyes
That far outreaches all philosophy.
Time, with caressing touch, about them weaves
The silver-threaded fairy-shawl of age,
While all the echoes of forgotten songs
Seem joined to lend a sweetness to their speech,
Old mothers!-as they pass with slow-timed step.
Their trembling hands cling gently to youth's strength.
Sweet mothers!-as they pass, one sees again
Old garden-walks, old roses, and old loves.
-Charles S. Ross.