With cheeks that paled the rosy morn
And romped with us among the corn
When we were kids together.
Her mother's help, her mother's mate,
Her mother's darling daughter,
When riper mind and more sedate
The rapid years had brought her...
...And many a head bowed low to pray,
Howe'er her skies might vary,
The years would bless her on her way
And keep her Laughing Mary.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
52 poems (week 27)
This is last week's poem that I had lined up but forgot to publish. It's an excerpt of an Australian poem by John O'Brien, a psuedonym for an Irish-Catholic priest named Patrick Joseph Hartigan.