--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Pearson, Sarah Hawley collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 14 number: 6 published: 1911-04 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: 'Sarah Hawley Pearson, "Motherhood," *Improvement Era* 14, no. 6 (April 1911): 495–499.' source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera1406unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera1406unse start_page: 495 end_page: 499 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1911-04) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera1406unse publication_year: 1911 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1911, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # Motherhood OPPORTUNITY. 495 spell of inspiration, teaches divine truth, and bids you watch and hope again: They do me wrong who say I come no more, When once I knock and fail to find you in; For every day I stand outside your door, And bid you wake, and rise to fight and win. Wail not for precious chances passed away, Weep not for golden ages on the wane; Each night I burn the records of the day, At sunrise every soul is born again. Laugh like a boy at splendors tha*; have sped, To banished joys be blind and deaf and dumb; My judgments seal the dead past with its dead, But never bind a moment yet to come. Though deep in mire, wring not your hands and weep, I lend my arm to all who say "I can,'' No shame-faced outcast ever sank so deep But yet might rise and be again a man. Dost thou behold thy lost youth all aghast? Dost reel from righteous retribution's blow? Then turn from blotted archives of the past, And find the future's pages white as snow. Art thou a mourner? House thee from thy spell; Art thou a sinner? Sins may be forgiven; Each morning gives thee wings to flee from hell, Each night a star to guide thy feet to heaven. Judge Walter Malone, Memphis. Motherhood. (For the Improvement Era.) The link that bound my spirit to its clay, Half broken, rested in the palm of God. Through sufferings so great I sank — and lay — It seemed that earth for me had no more day; My feet press nevermore its flints of gray; The very memory of it slid away. My ego floated far on sunset ray — Prone, the abandoned, almost pulseless clod. When lo! from earth-bound solitudes, a cry, So piercing sweet, I knew my heaven was there! My baby's voice could draw me from the sky, His tiny arms arrest my flight on high, And rosaleaf touches claim their lullaby. Raised from the lethargy of death, I sigh My feeble life-plea. God will not deny When offered with its double meed of prayer. Soft, fragrant breaths fan, pulsing on my hair, My pallid cheek grows warm with life's red wine; And stiffened lips essay to voice a prayer Of praise. 0 heart so fully free from care! 0 feet so light that I could tread on air! (Dear angels hover close my bliss to share). Child of the Covenant, in my arms I bear The world triumphant, when mine eyes meet thine. 0 orbs divine! so clear, and yet so deep; So full of light, yet so inscrutable; 0 pools of living color, warmth and sleep — How all my pulses to thy gaze do leap! Mystic, half-memories through thy glances creep, My heritage from God, to have and keep. MOTHERHOOD. 497 My pain's forgot— 'tis rapture makes me weep, My Babe, my gift from source immutable! Roll from my cheek, thou tear! No briefest space Would I be blinded to my present bliss; My pinnacle of womanhood — the grace Which shone with motherhood on Mary's face. Close may I hold thee but a little space, My man-child, God will want thee, take thy place, And in his name perpetuate the race,— but now, Drink love of me with mother's milk and kiss. Slumber, my baby, through the velvet span Of dewy night, to meet thy first sweet dawn. I, steeped in reverie, review the plan Formed by the Gods who first created man. And, thinking, sleep; and, sleeping, dream that we, In clouds of pearl and amber seem to see The Christ-child cradled on his mother's knee. He calls to us — we kneel in ecstasy! Then look again — the forms are gone . The Angel of His Presence stands between, White stones in silver bows, are in his hand. Behind him, shimmering as a vale to screen, A glory of reflected light is seen From Zenith to the far horizon's sheen. He turns on us a look both kind and keen; Smiles as I clasp you to my heart and lean To look through seer-stones into future lands. Trembling, I peer down the dim aisle of years — The narrow path shows rugged in the gloom. The Man of Sorrows far ahead appears,— Ofttimes the glow around him warms and cheers, And lifts the pall of untried, nameless fears. We gather for him flowers washed by tears. Close to the shore we hear vast surges boom; — Far off, a Land of Rest faint stars illume. And then One Star, in the o'er-arching dome, Glitters adown the waste of waters wild; Reflects its radiance in the crested comb; Showers broken diamond flashes 'mid the foam; Our Star of Bethlehem, Celestial Home! Beneath its rays, to us serene and mild, In quivering brightness, pure and undefined, Walk hand in hand, young mother and young child. And still I gaze. Years pass. Joy, grief and change: Mother and child no more together play With leaves of grass and bubbles. In a way We have changed places, and his noon of day Finds sown in me earth-symptoms of decay. My strong young shoulders, all too willingly, Have borne their burden. Bittersweet and strange To lean where I have led. And the wide range Of deep devotion, unremitting care, Of passionate protection, lavished free Upon my offspring, now returns to me. Mature in years, more understandingly, My love, unselfish, symbols Deity. Darling, your eyes are holden, but / see; Forgiven, sleep I through Gethsemane Alone, as God intended it to be. . . . Vibrant to thousands is his "Follow me." Soft, angel-fingers swift my eyelids press — My dream is broken. Dawn, like a caress, Mounts high and bright, a new-born babe to bless. We wake to meet its ambient tenderness. Christ reigns in Heaven; yet, just today he seems For thy sake, baby mine, sweet Mary's Boy, Tiny and flawless dimpling in his dreams; Celestial aura softly round him gleams; In Mary's eye a pensive gladness beams. 0 life — 0 grave — 0 mysteries unsolved— MOTHERHOOD. 499 0 destiny, with Mary's Child involved— 0 depth of mother-grief, and heights of joy! Cherub of mine, when manhood's mantle falls Upon thy shoulders, and thy smooth, white brow Furrows with thought and care— when Jesus calls, "Brother, take up thy burden for my sake, To earth-life opportunities awake! Use thou thy talents, and thy record make, 1 love thee, and would share with thee my all." Will you then hear his voice and heed his call? Could I but know you will be true and brave, Hold fast the anchor that his woe has won, And realize his priceless life he gave That we be parted not beyond the grave— So meek to suffer, and so great to save— 'Tis love of him and love for me I crave, . . . When the last thread "of grass-and-gold be spun, Last service rendered, and new life begun. Beyond the reaches of the setting sun- Were I enthroned, 'mid stars above the blue, My loving heart were calling, calling you, Till you cry, Mother! and I answer, Son! 'Tis not on couch of roses, but your breast, With all its filial fervor to be pressed, Would I account myself supremely blest; Could I forget earth's agony— and rest. Nor could I face thee, Lord, without my gift Had doubled to thy glory ; nor could stand By loved ones gone before, with empty hand, Had I proved recreant, on my brow the brand Of an unfaithful mother. Could all Heaven Fill empty arms that lost the Treasure given Through mine own folly? Even though forgiven, Where is my glory? Heaven were not for me Could I not add, and share, and say, with Thee, — Surrounded by Thy flock for God to see: — "LO, THESE ARE THEY WHOM THOU HAST GIVEN ME!" ogdbn, Utah. Sarah E. Hawley Pearson.