My mother’s life is like the year
Whose seasons I can trace
In lines and lights and shadows dim
Reflected in her face.
The spring still lingers on her cheeks
Like boughs of apple blooms
Which dress the windows of her life
And freshen up its rooms.
These tokens fair were given her
When springtime left her land,
That when she saw spring bloom elsewhere,
Her heart might understand.
Her eyes are like the summer time;
In them how much I see!
It seems a thousand summers shine
Whene’er she looks at me.
Those days of toil were long and hot
And filled with joy and pain.
Now summer’s faith shines in her eyes
In spite the darkest rain.
The autumn sits upon her lips­—
The vintage of her years.
The wine press that she trod is gone,
And hidden are the tears.
Now words of wisdom does she speak,
Good council, safe and meet,
The harvest of life’s testings sore
In fruitage ripe and sweet.
The winter crowns her lovely brow;
A snowdrift soft and white
Rests gently there and seems to make
A halo shining bright.
The seasons four—I see them all­—
Nor would I one erase.
They make the mystery and charm
I find in mother’s face.