My mother sate me at her glass; This necklet of bright flowers she wove; Crisscross her gentle hands did pass, And wound in my hair her love. Deep in the mirror our glances met, And grieved, lest from her care I roam, She kissed me through her tears, and set On high this spangling comb. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE IN THE GARDEN (1) by EMILY DICKINSON THE RAILWAY TRAIN by EMILY DICKINSON ON SIR PALMES FAIRBORNE'S TOMB, IN WESTERMINSTER ABBEY by JOHN DRYDEN ON A FLOWER FROM THE FIELD OF GRUTLI by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS |