Down To The Mothers
Linger no more, my beloved, by abbey and cell and cathedral;
Mourn not for holy ones mourning of old them who knew not the Father,
Weeping with fast and scourge, when the bridegroom was taken from them.
Drop back awhile through the years, to the warm rich youth of the nations,
Childlike in virtue and faith, though childlike in passion and pleasure,
Childlike still, and still near to their God, while the day-spring of
Lingered in rose-red rays on the peaks of Ionian mountains.
Down to the mothers, as Faust went,
I go, to the roots of our manhood,
Mothers of us in our cradles; of us once more in our glory.
New-born, body and soul, in the great pure world which shall
In the renewing of all things, when man shall return to his
Conquering evil, and death, and shame, and the slander of conscience—Free in the sunshine of Godhead—and fearlessly smile on his Father.
Down to the mothers I go—yet with thee still!—be with me, thou purest!
Lead me, thy hand in my hand; and the dayspring of God go before us.
Eversley, 1852.
Charles Kingsley
Other author posts
The Starlings
Early in spring time, on raw and windy mornings, Beneath the freezing house-eaves I heard the starlings sing—'Ah dreary March month, is this then a time for building wearily Sad, sad, to think that the year is but begun 'Late in the...
Easter Week
See the land, her Easter keeping, Rises as her Maker rose Seeds, so long in darkness sleeping, Burst at last from winter snows
The Poetry of A Root Crop
Underneath their Russet swede and golden globe, Feathered carrot, burrowing deep, Steadfast wait in charmed sleep;
The Longbeards Saga AD 400
Over the Drank I with heroes, Under the Donau bank, Warm in the snow trench:
