The Verse-Book of a Homely Woman

To an Old Teapot

     Now from the dust of half-forgotten
          things,
     You rise to haunt me at the year's Spring-
          cleaning,
     And bring to memory dim imaginings
     Of mystic meaning.

     No old-time potter handled you, I ween,
     Nor yet were you of gold or silver molten;
     No Derby stamp, nor Worcester, can be
          seen,
     Nor Royal Doulton.

     You never stood to grace the princely
          board
     Of monarchs in some Oriental palace.
     Your lid is chipped, your chubby side is
          scored
     As if in malice.

     I hesitate to say it, but your spout
     Is with unhandsome rivets held together—
     Mute witnesses of treatment meted out
     In regions nether.

     O patient sufferer of many bumps!
     I ask it gently—shall the dustbin hold
          you?
     And will the dust-heap, with its cabbage
          stumps,
     At last enfold you?

     It ought. And yet with gentle hands I
          place
     You with my priceless Delft and Dresden
          china,
     For sake of one who loved your homely
          face
     In days diviner.

To a Rebellious
     Daughter

     You call authority "a grievous thing."
     With careless hands you snap the
          leading string,
     And, for a frolic (so it seems to you),
     Put off the old love, and put on the new.

     For "What does Mother know of love?"
          you say.
     "Did her soul ever thrill?
     Did little tendernesses ever creep
     Into her dreams, and over-ride her will?
     Did her eyes shine, or her heart ever leap
     As my heart leaps to-day?
     I, who am young; who long to try my
          wings!

     How should she understand,
     She, with her calm cool hand?
     She never felt such yearnings? And,
          beside,
     It's clear I can't be tied
     For ever to my mother's apron strings."

     There are Infinities of Knowledge, dear.
     And there are mysteries, not yet made
          clear
     To you, the Uninitiate. . . . Life's book
     Is open, yes; but you may only look
     At its first section. Youth
     Is part, not all, the truth.
     It is impossible that you should see
     The end from the beginning perfectly.

     You answer: "Even so.
     But how can Mother know,
     Who meditates upon the price of bacon?
     On 'liberties' the charwoman has taken,
     And on the laundry's last atrocities?
     She knows her cookery book,
     And how a joint of English meat should
          look.
     But all such things as these
     Make up her life. She dwells in tents,
          but I
     In a vast temple open to the sky."

     Yet, time was, when that Mother stooped
          to learn
     The language written in your infant face.
     For years she walked your pace,
     And none but she interpreted your chatter.
     Who else felt interest in such pitter-patter?
     Or, weary, joined in all your games with
          zest,
     And managed with a minimum of rest?
     Now, is it not your turn
     To bridge the gulf, to span the gap be-
          tween you?
     To-day, before Death's angel over-lean
          you,
     Before your chance is gone?
     This is worth thinking on.

     "Are mothers blameless, then?" Nay,
          dearie, nay.
     Nor even tactful, always. Yet there may
     Come some grey dawning in the by
          and by,
     When, no more brave, nor sure, nor strong,
          you'll cry
     Aloud to God, for that despised thing,
     The old dear comfort—Mother's apron
          string.