I love old mothers–mothers with white hair, and kindly
eyes, and lips grown softly sweet, with murmured blessings over
sleeping babes. There is something in their quiet grace that speaks
the calm of Sabbath afternoons; a knowledge in their deep, unfaltering
eyes that far outreaches philosophy. Time, with caressing touch,
about them weaves the silver-threaded fairy-shawl of age; while
all the echoes of forgotten songs seem joined to lend a sweetness
to their speech. Old mothers! As they pass, with slow-timed step,
their trembling hand clings gently to youth’s strength. Sweet
mothers! As they pass, one sees again old garden walks, old roses,
and old loves.