Here, in her elbow chair, she sits A soul alert, alive,
A poor old body shrunk and bent— The queen-bee of the hive.
But hives of bees and hives of men Obey their several laws;
No fiercely-loving filial throng This mother-head adores.
This bringer of world-wealth, whereof None may compute the worth,
Is possibly of no account To anyone on earth.
Her cap and spectacles, that mean Dim eyes and scanty hairs,
The humble symbols of her state— The only crown she wears.
Lacking a kingdom and a court, A relic of the past,
Almost a cumberer of the ground— That is our queen at last.
But still not wholly without place, Nor quite bereft of power;
A useful stopgap—a resource In many a troubled hour.
She darns the stockings, keeps the house, The nurseless infant tends,
While the young matrons and the men Pursue their various ends— Too keen-set on their great affairs, Or little plays and pranks,
The things and people of their world, To give her thought or thanks— The children on whom all her thought And time and love were spent Through half a century of years! Yet is she well content.
The schooling of those fiery years, It has not been for nought;
A large philosophy of life Has self-less service taught.
The outlook from the heights attained By climbings sore and slow Discovers worlds of wisdom, hid From clearest eyes below.
So calmly, in her elbow chair, Forgotten and alone,
She knits and dreams, and sometimes sighs But never makes a moan.
Still dwelling with her brood unseen— Ghosts of a bygone day— The precious daughter in her grave, The dear son gone astray— And others, to whom once she stood As only light and law,
The near and living, and yet lost, That need her love no more.
Watching their joyous setting forth To mingle with their kind,
With scarce a pang, with ne'er a grudge, At being left behind. "Let them be young, as I was young, And happy while they may" . . . .
A dog that waits the night in peace Since it has had its day.
