In the first dawn she lifted from her bed <br />The holy silver of her noble head, <br />And listened, listened, listened for his tread. <br />'Too soon, too soon !' she murmured, 'Yet I'll keep <br />My vigil longer thou, O tender Sleep, <br />Art but the joy of those who wake and weep! <br /> <br />'Joy's self hath keen, wide eyes. O flesh of mine, <br />And mine own blood and bone, the very wine <br />Of my aged heart, I see thy dear eyes shine! <br /> <br />'I hear thy tread; thy light, loved footsteps run <br />Along the way, eager for that 'Well done !' <br />We'll weep and kiss to thee, my soldier son! <br /> <br />'Blest mother I he lives! Yet had he died <br />Blest were I still, I sent him on the tide <br />Of my full heart to save his nation's pride!' <br /> <br />'O God, if that I tremble so to-day, <br />Bowed with such blessings that I cannot pray <br />By speech a mother prays, dear Lord, alway <br /> <br />'In some far fibre of her trembling mind! <br />I'll up I thought I heard a bugle bind <br />Its silver with the silver of the wind. '<br /><br />Isabella Valancy Crawford<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/his-mother/
