On 'liberties' the charwoman has taken,
And on the laundry's last atrocities?
She knows her cookery book,
And how a joint of English meat should
look.
But all such things as these
Make up her life. She dwells in tents,
but I
In a vast temple open to the sky."

Yet, time was, when that Mother stooped
to learn
The language written in your infant face.
For years she walked your pace,
And none but she interpreted your chatter.
Who else felt interest in such pitter-patter?
Or, weary, joined in all your games with
zest,
And managed with a minimum of rest?
Now, is it not your turn
To bridge the gulf, to span the gap be-
tween you?
To-day, before Death's angel over-lean
you,
Before your chance is gone?
This is worth thinking on.

"Are mothers blameless, then?" Nay,
dearie, nay.
Nor even tactful, always. Yet there may