Songs, Merry and Sad

Lines

     To you, dear mother heart, whose hair is gray
     Above this page to-day,
     Whose face, though lined with many a smile and care,
     Grows year by year more fair,

     Be tenderest tribute set in perfect rhyme,
     That haply passing time
     May cull and keep it for strange lips to pay
     When we have gone our way;

     And, to strange men, weary of field and street,
     Should this, my song, seem sweet,
     Yours be the joy, for all that made it so
     You know, dear heart, you know.