Mother Magic


IN days of childhood, now long-lapsed and dim,
Often I sat within a holy place
Where mystic word and solemn-rolling hymn
Touched the tranced souls of men to thoughts of Grace.
Too small to comprehend, yet happy there
I lingered, since beside me, close and dear,
Sat the sweet mother with her rippled hair,
Her smile of angels and her color clear.
And she would hold my hand, and so express,
In some deep way, the wonder of the hour:
Our spirits talked, by silent tenderness,
As easily as flower nods to flower.
And to this day, when so I creep alone
Into some sacred corner, list the choir,
Hear some great organ’s most melodious moan
And watch the windows flush daylight with fire,
Over me once again those memories steal;
I sit as in a dream, and understand
God’s meaning; for, across the years, I feel
The meek, sure magic of that spirit-hand.