John James Piatt (1835–1917)

THE SWEET pure mother, wearing through the dust

Her heaven-white garment of fresh Christian love

Silent about her, while her patient trust

O’er cloudland sings—one sunlit bird above—

Through twilight’s hushing gold bends sweet and lowly

Down on her little children, making prayers

Grow in their hearts, while their low voices slowly

Send little angels heavenward unawares:

So Nature, a sweet mother, o’er us bends,

Through this dim eve of an eternal day;

Whispers love-words, till gushing light ascends,—

Prayer’s hidden fountain in the heart that lay;

And heaven’s mild dew into our dream descends,

While, flame-like, close tired eyes, waiting morn’s golden ray.