Theresa Helburn: Mother
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Mother

1887-1959


I have praised many loved ones in my song,
         And yet I stand
Before her shrine, to whom all things belong,
         With empty hand.

Perhaps the ripening future holds a time
         For things unsaid;
Not now; men do not celebrate in rhyme
         Their daily bread.


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DayPoems Poem No. 1147



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