Nature, the gentlest mother,
Impatient of no child,
The feeblest or the waywardest,
Her admonition mild
In forest and the hill
By traveller is heard,
Restraining rampant squirrel,
Or too impetuous bird.
How fair her conversation,
A summer afternoon,--
Her household, her assembly;
And when the sun goes down,
Her voice among the aisles
Incites the timid prayer
Of the minutest cricket,
The most unworthy flower.
When all her children sleep
She turns as long away
As will suffice to light her lamps;
Then, bending from the sky,
With infinite affection,
And infiniter care,
Her golden finger on her lip,
Wills silence everywhere.
(Isn't that lovely? Aaron Copland set it to music too. Also lovely. Sorry, no picture. Can't get it to work today. Now I'm just going to take a nap. Ahhh.)
2 comments:
didn't think to listen to it for mother's day. i have the dawn upshaw recording. great way to end the day.
That was lovely, just lovely. I feel my psyche has been refreshed. Thank you. Emily Dickinson is never a bad choice, is she? What a beautiful soul she has shared with us all.
Post a Comment