Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, MOTHER, by TITUS LOWE

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MOTHER, by            
First Line: Not a great lady
Last Line: And count me a son of god!
Subject(s): Mothers

NOT a great lady, this mother of mine,
Easy through social graces,
But her eyes oft shine with a light divine,
As they gaze full of tenderness into mine,
And her spirit is lucid, clear, and fine
As angels in heavenly places.

Delicate, fragile, weak she is not,
Mother who has loved me long;
Her strong back's bent leaning o'er the cot
As child after child there fell to her lot;
And she thanked the good God for the children she got,
And burdens she bore with a song.

Not white nor tiny is mother's hand--
It's reddened and knotted with toil;
But the gentlest zephyr from fairy's wand,
Nor the softest snowflake in all the land,
Is so gentle and soft as mother's hand
When fevers begin to boil.

I thank Thee, God, for her Thou hast given
To me, a man of the sod;
For me she has prayed and hoped and striven,
For me her heart has oft been riven;
O make me worthy of her and heaven,
And count me a son of God!

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