Mrs. Elizabeth Oakes Smith (1806–1893)

EARTH careth for her own: the fox lies down

In her warm bosom, and it asks no more.

The bird, content, broods in its lowly nest,

Or, its fine essence stirred, with wing outflown,

Circles in airy rounds to heaven’s own door,

And folds again its plume upon her breast.

Ye, too, for whom her palaces arise,

Whose Tyrian vestments sweep the kindred ground,

Whose golden chalice Ivy-Bacchus dyes,

She, kindly mother, liveth in your eyes,

And no strange anguish may your lives astound.

But ye, O pale, lone watchers for the true,

She knoweth not. In her ye have not found

Place for your stricken head, wet with the midnight dew.