The Mother

HER boys are not shut out. They come Homing like pigeons to her door, Sure of her tender welcome home, As many a time before.

Their bed is made so smooth and sweet, The fire is lit—the table spread; She has poured water for their feet, That they be comforted.

As with a fluttering of wings They are come home, come home to stay; With all the bitter dreadful things Forgot, clean washed away.

They are so glad to stay, so glad They nestle to her gown's soft flow, As in the loving times they had, Long ago, long ago.