Linger no more, my beloved, by abbey and cell and cathedral; <br />Mourn not for holy ones mourning of old them who knew not the Father, <br />Weeping with fast and scourge, when the bridegroom was taken from them. <br />Drop back awhile through the years, to the warm rich youth of the nations, <br />Childlike in virtue and faith, though childlike in passion and pleasure, <br />Childlike still, and still near to their God, while the day-spring of Eden <br />Lingered in rose-red rays on the peaks of Ionian mountains. <br />Down to the mothers, as Faust went, I go, to the roots of our manhood, <br />Mothers of us in our cradles; of us once more in our glory. <br />New-born, body and soul, in the great pure world which shall be <br />In the renewing of all things, when man shall return to his Eden <br />Conquering evil, and death, and shame, and the slander of conscience- <br />Free in the sunshine of Godhead-and fearlessly smile on his Father. <br />Down to the mothers I go-yet with thee still!-be with me, thou purest! <br />Lead me, thy hand in my hand; and the dayspring of God go before us. <br /> <br /> <br />Eversley, 1852.<br /><br />Charles Kingsley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/down-to-the-mothers/
