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.