<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=427869" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Mother Mind</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I never made a poem, dear friend--<br> I never sat me down, and said,<br> This cunning brain and patient hand<br> Shall fashion something to be read.<br> Men often came to me, and prayed<br> I should indite a fitting verse<br> For fast, or festival, or in<br> Some stately pageant to rehearse.<br> (As if, than Balaam more endowed,<br> I of myself could bless or curse.)</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Reluctantly I bade them go,<br> Ungladdened by my poet-mite;<br> My heart is not so churlish but<br> Its loves to minister delight.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> But not a word I breathe is mine<br> To sing, in praise of man or God;<br> My Master calls, at noon or night,<br> I know his whisper and his nod.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Yet all my thoyghts to rhythms run,<br> To rhyme, my wisdom and my wit?<br> True, I consume my life in verse,<br> But wouldst thou know how that is writ?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> 'T is thus--through weary length of days,<br> I bear a thought within my breast<br> That greatens from my growth of soul,<br> And waits, and will not be expressed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> It greatens, till its hour has come,<br> Not without pain, it sees the light;<br> 'Twixt smiles and tears I view it o'er,<br> And dare not deem it perfect, quite.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> These children of my soul I keep<br> Where scarce a mortal man may see,<br> Yet not unconsecrate, dear friend,<br> Baptismal rites they claim of thee.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Julia+Ward+Howe">Julia Ward Howe</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <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=427869" data-title="Mother Mind de Julia Ward Howe" data-description="I never made a poem, dear friend-- I never sat me down, and said, This cunning brain and patient hand Shall fashion something to be read. Men often came to me, and prayed I should indite a fitting verse For fast, or festival, or in Some sta..."></div> </div> </div>

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