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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=115115" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Dedication. To my mother</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The flowers of romance that I cherished,<br> Around me lie withered and dead;<br>The stars of my youth's shining heaven,<br> Were but meteors whose brightness misled;<br>And the day-dreams of life's vernal morning,<br> Like the mists of the morning have fled.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But one flower I have found still unwithered;<br> Like the night-scented jasmin it gleams;<br>And beyond where the fallen stars vanished,<br> One light pure and hallowed still beams;<br>One love I have found, deep and changeless,<br> As that I have yearned for in dreams.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Too often the links have been broken,<br> That bound me in friendship's bright chain;<br>Too often has fancy deceived me<br> To blind or to charm me again;<br>And I sigh o'er my young heart's illusions,<br> With a sorrow I would were disdain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But now, as the clouds return earthward,<br> From the cold and void ether above;<br>As on pinions all drooping and weary,<br> O'er the waste flew the wandering dove;<br>O'er the tide of the world's troubled waters,<br> I return to the ark of thy love.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here, at length, my tired spirit reposes;<br> Here my heart's strongest tendrils entwine;<br>Here its warmest and deepest affections<br> It lays on earth's holiest shrine:<br>Dearest mother, receive the devotion<br> Of the life thou hast given from thine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here, pressed to thy bosom, the tempests<br> That sweep over life's stormy sea,<br>Have beat, in their impotent fury,---<br> They were winged with no terror for me;<br>If I shrank from the fearful encounter,<br> If I trembled---it was but for thee.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The spirit of Song that lies buried<br> In silence or sleep in the breast,<br>Unlike the wild music of Memnon,<br> Is charmed by the sunshine to rest;<br>In the clash of contending emotions<br> Are its harmonies only expressed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When, at moments, my soul has been shaken,<br> In the strife with the world's rushing throng;<br>Or moved by some holier impulse,<br> As borne by its current along;<br>This spirit aroused, has responded,<br> And uttered these fragments of song.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I know they are but passing echoes,<br> For which time has no place and no name;<br>But hereafter, in loftier numbers,<br> Might I seek for the guerdon of fame---<br>Might I gather its evergreen laurels---<br> I would twine them around thy loved name.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But I mark now a pallor that deepens,<br> And spreads o'er thy brow and thy cheek;<br>And, filled with a fearful foreboding,<br> My strong heart grows nerveless and weak;<br>And shrinks back appalled from the anguish,<br> The blow beneath which it would break.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh, leave me not yet, gentle spirit,<br> Though our loved and our lost, gone before,<br>In the Better Land watch for thy coming,<br> And call thee away to that shore;<br>These clasped arms are strong to detain thee---<br> Leave, leave me not yet, I implore!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh God! let this cup but pass from me,<br> When thy bitterest draught would be thrown;<br>Not yet those sweet ties rend asunder<br> Heart with heart, life with life that have grown!<br>Not yet can I bear life's great burden,<br> And tread its dark wine-press alone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Anne+Lynch+Botta">Anne Lynch Botta</a> from <i>Poems</i><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=115115" data-title="Dedication. To my mother de Anne Lynch Botta" data-description="The flowers of romance that I cherished,/ Around me lie withered and dead;/The stars of my youth's shining heaven,/ Were but meteors whose brightness misled;/And the day-dreams of life's vernal morning,/ Like the mists of the morning have fled./Bu..."></div>
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