A picture of her mother long ago,
This lovely woman, long before the cares
Of life had ground her hopeful outlook so,
And aged her sagging spirit unawares
The beauty that her daughter could recall,
A memory of an inner sort of calm,
Reflected in this picture on the wall,
Ethereal: a poem, or a psalm —
How could it be that life would treat her so?
Why are our precious things ground down to dust?
Must innocence be ever brought down low,
And lose itself in doing what it must?
But yet: it makes her love her mother more —
For all she loved, and gave up, in the war