Lines
To you, dear mother heart, whose hair is grayAbove this page to-day,Whose face, though lined with many a smile and care,Grows year by year more fair,
Be tenderest tribute set in perfect rhyme,That haply passing timeMay cull and keep it for strange lips to payWhen we have gone our way;
And, to strange men, weary of field and street,Should this, my song, seem sweet,Yours be the joy, for all that made it soYou know, dear heart, you know.