Late Tidings

By George Sterling

They told me, on the day my mother died,
  How she would look, each Sunday, down the street,
  Eager to be the first of all to greet
Her customary son, and how she sighed
When I came not. They said she had such pride
  In my poor songs. She, proud of me! Defeat
  Has subtle ways of wounding. Bittersweet
Are memories that will not be denied.

Now I would go so very many miles
To see but one of those rewarding smiles,
  And to give that pleasure to her loving heart.
To think she cared so much! To stand once more
A supplicant at her familiar door!
  But now we are so many miles apart!

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