Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE CALLING MOTHERLAND, by DORA SIGERSON SHORTER Poem Explanation Poet's Biography First Line: On the lone height of some untrodden hill Last Line: Across the world dear voices calling still. Alternate Author Name(s): Sigerson, Dora; Shorter, Mrs. Clement Subject(s): Children; Loss; Mothers; Childhood | ||||||||
ON the lone height of some untrodden hill The shadowy mother goes, Calling, calling; Grief hath her eyes, her cheek is wan and chill As winter snows On the far height of some untrodden hill. The four strong winds take up her voice and fly The circling world around, Calling, calling; The northern gale goes forth with sudden cry Tempestuous sound; The four strong winds take up her voice and fly. Where the wan wave leaps lone beneath the moon The west wet winds will roam, Calling, calling; Where southern breezes stir some far lagoon The ships sail home, Where the wan wave leaps lone beneath the moon. Through the grey clouding of the silent night Her wandering children rise, Calling, calling; Homeward they turn like birds of weary flight, With longing eyes, Through the grey clouding of the silent night. I see them come on slow and wounded wing. Where snows unmelting lie, Calling, calling; From the far south, where lives no ending spring, Nor summers die, I see them come on slow and wounded wing. From the far heights upon the gypsies' road They hear her distant voice, Calling, calling; Where the grey camel groans beneath his load They hear, rejoice, From the far heights upon the gypsies' road. Once they went forth all full of hope and joy, They would not heed her cry, Calling, calling. Their glad young hearts Time met to soon destroy; They come to die; Once they went forth all full of hope and joy. She draws them home, and holds them to her heart, Like children put to sleep; Calling, calling, On those far others who are still apart, Who wandering weep; She draws them home, and holds them to her heart. She lays them down in their deep beds to rest, With coverlet of green, Calling, calling. Do they not join in her enduring quest, Her piteous keen, Who lie so still in their cold graves to rest? Across the world her voice comes crying still, One exile's heart to break, Calling, calling. Ah! calling, too, from out their graves so chill. The lone dead speak. Across the world dear voices calling still. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE THREE CHILDREN by JOSEPHINE JACOBSEN CHILDREN SELECTING BOOKS IN A LIBRARY by RANDALL JARRELL COME TO THE STONE ... by RANDALL JARRELL THE LOST WORLD by RANDALL JARRELL A SICK CHILD by RANDALL JARRELL CONTINENT'S END by ROBINSON JEFFERS ON THE DEATH OF FRIENDS IN CHILDHOOD by DONALD JUSTICE THE POET AT SEVEN by DONALD JUSTICE THE WIND ON THE HILLS by DORA SIGERSON SHORTER |
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