To Mother

You painted no Madonnas
  On chapel walls in Rome,
But with a touch diviner
  You lived one in your home.

You wrote no lofty poems
  That critics counted art,
But with a nobler vision
  You lived them in your heart.

You carved no shapeless marble
  To some high souled design,
But with a finer sculpture
  You shaped this soul of mine.

You built no great cathedrals
  That centuries applaud
But with a grace exquisite
  Your life cathedraled God.

Had I the gift of Raphael,
  Or Michelangelo,
Oh, what a rare Madonna
  My mother's life would show!

--T.W. Fessenden