MOTHER'S WORK by MARGARET ELIZABETH MUNSON SANGSTER

DEAR patient woman, o'er your children bending
To leave a good-night kiss on rosy lips,
Or list the simple prayers to God ascending
Ere slumber veil them in its soft eclipse,—
I wonder, do you dream that seraphs love you,
And sometimes smooth the pathway for your feet;
That oft their silvery pinions float above you,
When life is tangled and its cross-roads meet?

So wan and tired, the whole long day so busy;
To laugh or weep, at times, you hardly know;
So many trifles make the poor brain dizzy,
So many errands call you to and fro.
Small garments stitching, weaving fairy stories,
And binding wounds and bearing little cares,
Your hours pass; unheeded all the glories
Of that great world beyond your nursery stairs.

One schoolmate's pen has written words of beauty;
Her poems sing themselves into the heart.
Another's brush has magic. You have duty,
No time to spare for poetry or art,—
But only time for training little fingers,
And teaching youthful spirits to be true;
You know not with what famine woman lingers,
With art alone to fill her, watching you.

And yet, I think you 'd rather keep the babies,
Albeit their heads grow heavy on your arm,
Than have the poet's fair, enchanted may-bes,—
The artist's visions, rich with dazzling charm.
Sweet are the troubles of the happy hours,
For even in weariness your soul is blest;
And rich contentment all your being dowers,
That yours is not a hushed and empty nest.

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