Eleanor Farjeon

To My Mother

Unuttered songs fly round my thoughts like birds,
And aerially, above an earth of words,
  Imagined music on my spirit showers
  From azure-feathered throat and golden tongue.

Most dear, of the many songs I cannot sing
Yours is the bird of heavenliest wing
  Whose sunward flight beyond my following towers
  And leaves me with an impotent harp unstrung.

And yet the shadow of my song for you
Falls on my heart forever as a dew,
  Or the dim-breathing soul of evening flowers
  That love the delicate light of stars still young.

These lesser songs that all who listen may hear
Shall we call yours for a day, most dear, most dear?--
  Knowing there is one other, only ours,
  For ever singing, and for ever unsung.