A gray old woman sits all alone,
Unloved, uncherished, and unknown.
Sitting beside her broken door,
Dreaming of days passed long ago,
When children played about her knee
Filling the air with childish glee,
Tended by her with loving care,
Knowing the blessing of a Mother's prayer.
But now they have gone, each to his life.
A girl to her husband, a boy to his wife,
Forgetful are they of her who sits here,
Silently wiping a tricking tear.
For striving for things in a life so brief
Blind their poor eyes to a dear Mother's grief.
But does she upbraid them in word or in mind.
Nor does their neglect to her seem unkind.
She'll forgive and forget all unkindness they've shown
This poor old mother who sits alone.
YOU ARE READING
poetry
RomansIn this poem, he can't fully explain his love, but he feels it deeply. It's not one of show. Instead, it's a love that's simple and humble, a love that sees the beauty hidden within a person. The repetition of "I love you" brings attention to the po...
