Mother of Sons

The great themes are ended,

Too well and soon,

Not one I mended me

All in my afternoon.

 

I lay once conjured

In love where she lay,

All thoughts of causes then

Slipped them away.

 

Crabgrass and thistletop

Is all I have left me;

Not so, she comes now,

My woman, she mends me.

 

Faithful, she steals from

The web of my weavings,

Back-lit at dusklight

She picks at my leavings.

 

Storms at my tempests

And laps at my waters,

My mother of sons,

My dear lover of daughters.

 

Walks with me gently now

All in the night’s cold

That I may be with her still,

When we grow old.

 

David Lewis Paget