A Portrait

A. M. M. BEHOLD her sitting in the sun This lovely April morn, As eager with the breath of life As daffodils new-born! A priestess of the toiling earth, Yet kindred to the spheres, A touch of the eternal spring Is over all her years. No fashion frets her dignity, Untrammeled, debonair; A fold of lace about her throat Falls from her whitening hair. A seraph visiting the earth Might wear that fearless guise, The heartening regard of such All-comprehending eyes. How comes she by preëminence, Desired, beloved, revered? Heroic living gained those heights Through ills she never feared. A spirit kindly as the dew And daring as a flame, With a distinguished, reckless wit No eighty years could tame. A mother of the Spartan strain, She held self-rule and sway, And single-handed braved the world And bore the prize away. No task too humble for her skill, No worthy way too long; She filled her work with ecstasy And crowned it with a song. The treasures she most dearly prized Were of the rarest kind — A gentle fortitude of soul And honesty of mind. To feed, to clothe, to teach, to cheer, To guard and guide and save — These were her fine accomplishments, To these her best she gave. With ringing word and instant cure She draws from far and near The gay, the witty, the forlorn, Priest, artist, beggar, seer. Unhesitant and sure they come, Hearing the human call, As of a mighty motherhood That understands them all. Ungrudging, without grief, she lives Each charged potential hour, Holding her loftiness of aim With agelessness of power. Immortal friendship, great with years! She shames the faltering, And heartens every struggling hope, Like hyacinths in spring!