MATER DOLOROSA.
I wander from the cloister,
Adown the valley green.
The spring air wakes my fancies,
The dreams that might have been.
The picture of God’s mother,
Hangs from the linden tree.
My soul it starts with memories—
Forgotten dreams I see.
Ah, strange this picture hidden,
Half hid by flowrets fair,
Was hung there by my mother,
Years, years ago, just there.
Not long ago I gazing,
Upon the picture felt
Within my soul a sorrow—
A bitterness there dwelt.
And while I look it changes;
My mother’s face I see.
The features calm in prayer—
That prayer is for me.
The eyes with tear-drops heavy,
The lips drawn for a kiss;
My mother’s face the last time
She kissed my brow in bliss.
And back I wander slowly,
Beneath the trees alone,
While thoughts of spring and sweetness,
My God, from me have flown.
