Grace Fallow Norton

IF my mother knew

How our doves at dawn

Shake me with their wings,

Wild, bewildered, wan,

When the white star sings

And they would be gone:

Would she from her sleep

Rise and look afar,

Past our fold and keep,

To that pulsing star?

If my mother knew

How the heath in flower,

With its faint perfume

At the twilight hour,

Fills my little room

Like some lady’s bower:

Would she from the hearth

Rise and look again,

Past our piteous dearth

To the purpling plain?

If my mother knew

How my heart will beat

With the hope of hands,

For the fall of feet,

Though no pilgrim bands

Find our narrow street:

Would she from the loom

Rise, remembering so

How the heart must roam?

Then—would she let me go?