"FOOT-SORE, weary, o'er the hills To your friendly door I come. I'm a mother; in my breast I have wrapped my only son. Lady, blessed of the Three, Give us shelter for a night. Pure and wise they say thou art, Pity one by fate bedight." Calm and grave the maiden stood; Eyed that weary mother long, Drooping form, despairing face, Eyes pathetic with great wrong. "Enter," gently then she spake, "Peace be thine from skies above, Only I have closed my door, Closed and barred it fast from Love." By the hearthstone warm and bright Sits the mother crooning low; Ah! an arrow's silver gleam, Flashes of a golden bow! Soft she sways a dimpled child Winged with down, and innocent; "Hush thee, Eros, -- sleep, my son," Sings her voice in glad content. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 52 by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN A WHITE ROSE by JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY A DIRGE by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY SONG OF THE ANGELS AT THE NATIVITY by NAHUM TATE INDEPENDENCE by HENRY DAVID THOREAU BLESS, DEAR SAVIOUR, THIS CHILD by THOMAS BECK ON A MINIATURE by HENRY AUGUSTIN BEERS |