Mother

I think that God took the fragrance

of a flower,

A flower, which blooms

Not for world praise,

But which makes sweet and

beautiful some bower;

The compassion of the dew,

Which gently lays

Reviving freshness on the fainting earth

And gives to all the tired things

New birth;

The steadfastness and radiance of stars,

Which lifts the sole above confining bars;

The gladness of fair dawns;

The sunset's peace;

Contentment, which from trivial rounds

Asks no release;

The life which finds its greatest joy

In deeds of love for others.

I think God took these precious things

And made of them Mothers.

Author Unknown from Ideals

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