I am writing near the lamp. It's fine weather. Pleasant stillness. In her black dress, tiny in the great armchair, Tranquil at the fireside, my mother is there. She's thinking, no doubt, of the dreadful illness That sent me away last winter—but without much worry, For I'm sensible, and stay indoors when there's a flurry. And then, remembering that an October night Can grow cold without any warning, suddenly, She puts a log where the hearth is flaming bright. ... Mother, blessèd among all women may you be! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON THE SLAIN COLLEGIANS by HERMAN MELVILLE TRANSFORMATION by BEATRICE JEAN K. BOROFF ANY LOVER TO HIS LASS by BERTON BRALEY MELANCHOLY by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES AN ELEGY ON MR. WILLIAM HOPTON by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) FOURTH BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 11 by THOMAS CAMPION AN AUTUMN GHOST-TRAIL by ALICE CHURCHILL CHAPHE UPON BISHOP ANDREWES HIS PICTURE BEFORE HIS SERMONS by RICHARD CRASHAW |