Before Two Portraits of My Mother

I love the beautiful young girl of this

　　portrait, my mother, painted years ago

　　when her forehead was white, and there was no

　　shadow in the dazzling Venetian glass

　　of her gaze. But this other likeness shows

　　the deep trenches across her forehead's white

　　marble. The rose poem of her youth that

　　her marriage sang is far behind. Here is

　　my sadness: I compare these portraits, one

　　of a joy-radiant brow, the other care-

　　heavy: sunrise—and the thick coming on

　　of night. And yet how strange my ways appear,

　　for when I look at these faded lips my heart

　　smiles, but at the smiling girl my tears start.