MOTHER.

A little room with scanty grace Of drapery or ordered ease; White dimity, and well-scrubbed boards,— But there's a hum of summer bees, The sun sends through the quiet place The scent that honeysuckle hoards.

Outside, the little garden glows With sun-warmed leaves and blossoms bright; Beyond lie meadow, lane, and wood Where trail the briony and wild rose, And where grow blossoms of delight In an inviolate solitude.

Through that green world there blows an air That cools my forehead even here In this sad city's riotous roar— And from that room my ears can hear Tears and the echo of a prayer, And the world's voice is heard no more.