Our mother is the sweetest and
Most delicate of all.
She knows more of paradise
Than angels can recall.
She’s not only beautiful
But passionately young,
Playful as a kid, yet wise
As one who has lived long.
Her love is like the rush of life,
A bubbling, laughing spring
That runs through all like liquid light
And makes the mountains sing.
And makes the meadows turn to flower
And trees to choicest fruit.
She is at once the field and bower
In which our hearts take root.
She is at once the sea and shore,
Our freedom and our past.
With her we launch our daring ships
Yet keep the things that last.
Nicholas Gordon
