The Mother Poem by Francis Joseph Sherman

The long dark night crawled slowly on;
I waited patiently,
Knowing at last the sudden dawn,
Sometime, would surely be.

It came,—to tell me everything


Was Winter’s quiet slave:
I waited still, aware that Spring
Was strong to come and save.

And then Spring came, and I was glad
A few expectant hours;


Until I learned the things I had
Were only withered flowers

Because there came not with the Spring
As in the ancient days—
The sound of his feet pattering


Along Spring’s open ways;

Because his sweetly serious eyes
Looked into mine no more;
Because no more in childish-wise;
He brought his gathered store



Of dandelions to my bed,
And violets and grass,―
Deeming I would be comforted
That Spring had come to pass.

And now these unused toys and I


Have little dread or care
For any season that drifts by
The silence we share;

And sometimes, when we think to pray,
Across the vacant years


We see God watching him at play
And pitying our tears.