D. M. Jacobs
If, loving you, life's golden knowledge came,
It rooted late and slowly in my soul,
For youth dislikes the greys of wise control,
And seeks, as one enthralled, the fatal flame
Of lurid colours in precincts of shame.
Dear aged eyes, that grieving, could condole,
Foreseeing wisdom as the decades roll,
And manhood growing worthy of its name,
Thus knowledge came, slow dawning into truth,
Enshrined your face and made me strong and wise.
O mother mine, who mourned my wilful youth,
Now to your grave I come, with bitter sighs,
Crying to you in penitence and ruth,
"All women have grown sacred in mine eyes."