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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=538832" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Mother And Son</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now sleeps the land of houses,<br>and dead night holds the street,<br>And there thou liest, my baby,<br>and sleepest soft and sweet;<br>My man is away for awhile,<br>but safe and alone we lie,<br>And none heareth thy breath but thy mother,<br>and the moon looking down from the sky<br>On the weary waste of the town,<br>as it looked on the grass-edged road<br>Still warm with yesterday’s sun,<br>when I left my old abode;<br>Hand in hand with my love,<br>that night of all nights in the year;<br>When the river of love o’erflowed<br>and drowned all doubt and fear,<br>And we two were alone in the world,<br>and once if never again,<br>We knew of the secret of earth<br>and the tale of its labour and pain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lo amidst London I lift thee,<br>and how little and light thou art,<br>And thou without hope or fear<br>thou fear and hope of my heart!<br>Lo here thy body beginning,<br>O son, and thy soul and thy life;<br>But how will it be if thou livest,<br>and enterest into the strife,<br>And in love we dwell together<br>when the man is grown in thee,<br>When thy sweet speech I shall hearken,<br>and yet ’twixt thee and me<br>Shall rise that wall of distance,<br>that round each one doth grow,<br>And maketh it hard and bitter<br>each other’s thought to know.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now, therefore, while yet thou art little<br>and hast no thought of thine own,<br>I will tell thee a word of the world;<br>of the hope whence thou hast grown;<br>Of the love that once begat thee,<br>of the sorrow that hath made<br>Thy little heart of hunger,<br>and thy hands on my bosom laid.<br>Then mayst thou remember hereafter,<br>as whiles when people say<br>All this hath happened before<br>in the life of another day;<br>So mayst thou dimly remember<br>this tale of thy mother’s voice,<br>As oft in the calm of dawning<br>I have heard the birds rejoice,<br>As oft I have heard the storm-wind<br>go moaning through the wood;<br>And I knew that earth was speaking,<br>and the mother’s voice was good.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now, to thee alone will I tell it<br>that thy mother’s body is fair,<br>In the guise of the country maidens<br>Who play with the sun and the air;<br>Who have stood in the row of the reapers<br>in the August afternoon,<br>Who have sat by the frozen water<br>in the high day of the moon,<br>When the lights of the Christmas feasting<br>were dead in the house on the hill,<br>And the wild geese gone to the salt-marsh<br>had left the winter still.<br>Yea, I am fair, my firstling;<br>if thou couldst but remember me!<br>The hair that thy small hand clutcheth<br>is a goodly sight to see;<br>I am true, but my face is a snare;<br>soft and deep are my eyes,<br>And they seem for men’s beguiling<br>fulfilled with the dreams of the wise.<br>Kind are my lips, and they look<br>as though my soul had learned<br>Deep things I have never heard of,<br>my face and my hands are burned<br>By the lovely sun of the acres;<br>three months of London town<br>And thy birth-bed have bleached them indeed,<br>“But lo, where the edge of the gown”<br>(So said thy father) “is parting<br>the wrist that is white as the curd<br>From the brown of the hand that I love,<br>bright as the wing of a bird.”</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Such is thy mother, O firstling,<br>yet strong as the maidens of old,<br>Whose spears and whose swords were the warders<br>of homestead, of field and of fold.<br>Oft were my feet on the highway,<br>often they wearied the grass;<br>From dusk unto dusk of the summer<br>three times in a week would I pass<br>To the downs from the house on the river<br>through the waves of the blossoming corn.<br>Fair then I lay down in the even,<br>and fresh I arose on the morn,<br>And scarce in the noon was I weary.<br>Ah, son, in the days of thy strife,<br>If thy soul could but harbour a dream<br>of the blossom of my life!<br>It would be as the sunlit meadows<br>beheld from a tossing sea,<br>And thy soul should look on a vision<br>of the peace that is to be.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet, yet the tears on my cheek!<br>and what is this doth move<br>My heart to thy heart, beloved,<br>save the flood of yearning love?<br>For fair and fierce is thy father,<br>and soft and strange are his eyes<br>That look on the days that shall be<br>with the hope of the brave and the wise.<br>It was many a day that we laughed,<br>as over the meadows we walked,<br>And many a day I hearkened<br>and the pictures came as he talked;<br>It was many a day that we longed,<br>and we lingered late at eve<br>Ere speech from speech was sundered,<br>and my hand his hand could leave.<br>Then I wept when I was alone,<br>and I longed till the daylight came;<br>And down the stairs I stole,<br>and there was our housekeeping dame<br>(No mother of me, the foundling)<br>kindling the fire betimes<br>Ere the haymaking folk went forth<br>to the meadows down by the limes;<br>All things I saw at a glance;<br>the quickening fire-tongues leapt<br>Through the crackling heap of sticks,<br>and the sweet smoke up from it crept,<br>And close to the very hearth<br>the low sun flooded the floor,<br>And the cat and her kittens played<br>in the sun by the open door.<br>The garden was fair in the morning,<br>and there in the road he stood<br>Beyond the crimson daisies<br>and the bush of southernwood.<br>Then side by side together<br>through the grey-walled place we went,<br>And O the fear departed,<br>and the rest and sweet content!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Son, sorrow and wisdom he taught me,<br>and sore I grieved and learned<br>As we twain grew into one;<br>and the heart within me burned<br>With the very hopes of his heart.<br>Ah, son, it is piteous,<br>But never again in my life<br>shall I dare to speak to thee thus;<br>So may these lonely words<br>about thee creep and cling,<br>These words of the lonely night<br>in the days of our wayfaring.<br>Many a child of woman<br>to-night is born in the town,<br>The desert of folly and wrong;<br>and of what and whence are they grown?<br>Many and many an one<br>of wont and use is born;<br>For a husband is taken to bed<br>as a hat or a ribbon is worn.<br>Prudence begets her thousands;<br>“good is a housekeeper’s life,<br>So shall I sell my body<br>that I may be matron and wife.”<br>“And I shall endure foul wedlock<br>and bear the children of need.”<br>Some are there born of hate,<br>many the children of greed.<br>“I, I too can be wedded,<br>though thou my love hast got.”<br>“I am fair and hard of heart,<br>and riches shall be my lot.”<br>And all these are the good and the happy,<br>on whom the world dawns fair.<br>O son, when wilt thou learn<br>of those that are born of despair,<br>As the fabled mud of the Nile<br>that quickens under the sun<br>With a growth of creeping things,<br>half dead when just begun?<br>E’en such is the care of Nature<br>that man should never die,<br>Though she breed of the fools of the earth,<br>and the dregs of the city sty.<br>But thou, O son, O son,<br>of very love wert born,<br>When our hope fulfilled bred hope,<br>and fear was a folly outworn.<br>On the eve of the toil and the battle<br>all sorrow and grief we weighed,<br>We hoped and we were not ashamed,<br>we knew and we were not afraid.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now waneth the night and the moon;<br>ah, son, it is piteous<br>That never again in my life<br>shall I dare to speak to thee thus.<br>But sure from the wise and the simple<br>shall the mighty come to birth;<br>And fair were my fate, beloved,<br>if I be yet on the earth<br>When the world is awaken at last,<br>and from mouth to mouth they tell<br>Of thy love and thy deeds and thy valour,<br>and thy hope that nought can quell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Morris">William Morris</a><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=538832" data-title="Mother And Son de William Morris" data-description="Now sleeps the land of houses,
and dead night holds the street,
And there thou liest, my baby,
and sleepest soft and sweet;
My man is away for awhile,
but safe and alone we lie,
And none heareth thy breath but thy mother,
and the moon looking down..."></div>
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