GRANDMITHER, THINK NOT I FORGET Grandmither, think not I forget, when I come back to town, An' wander the old ways again an' tread them up an' down. I never smell the clover bloom, nor see the swallow pass, Without I mind how good ye were unto a little lass. I never hear the winter rain a-pelting all night through, Without I think and mind me of how cold it falls on you. And if I come not often to your bed beneath the thyme, Mayhap 'tis that I'd change w' ye, and gie my bed for thine, Would like to sleep in thine. I never hear the summer winds among the roses blow, Without I wonder why it was ye loved the lassie so. Ye gave me cakes and lollipops and pretty toys a score, I never thought I should come back and ask ye now for more. Grandmither, gie me your still, white hands, that lie upon your breast, For mine do beat the dark all night and never find me rest; They grope among the shadows, an' they beat the cold black air, They go seekin' in the darkness, an' they never find him there, An' they never find him there. Grandmither, gie me your sightless eyes, that I may never see His own a-burning' full o' love that must not shine for me. Grandmither, gie me your peaceful lips, white as the kirkyard snow, for mine be red wi' burnin' thirst, an' he must never know. Grandmither, gie me your clay-stopped ears, that I may never hear My lad a'singin' in the night when I am sick wi' fear; A-singin' when the moonlight over a' the land is white -- Aw God! I'll up an' go to him a-singin' in the night, A-callin' in the night. Grandmither, gie me your clay-cold heart that has forgot to ache, For mine be fire within my breast and yet it cannot break. It beats an' throbs forever for the things that must not be, An' can ye not let me creep in an' rest awhile by ye? Ye'll know it's under rue an' rose that I would like to be, That I would like to be. -- American author Willa Sibert CATHER was born circa 1873 in a small farming community (Gore) close to the Blue Ridge Mountains in VA and raised on a farm in Webster Co., NE. (The first Cathers originally came from Ireland to PA in the 1750's - I believe they were Scots-Irish). Cather is one of America's greatest writers. She grew up among the immigrants who appear in her works. After graduating from the University of NE in 1895, she taught in a high school in Pittsburgh for several years. Her stories and poems speak eloquently of the great pioneers of the prairies of the Midwest who sacrificed their lives to build this country, other stories are set in the SW. Willa moved to NY and joined the staff of McClure's magazine (Samuel Sidney McCLURE born Antrim 1857), and Cather later becoming managing editor, leaving the magazine in 1912. In her fiction Miss Cather portrayed the beauty of the land and the simplicity of pioneer life, as well as the bitter, hard existence of the pioneers. "O Pioneers!" (1913) and "My Antonia" (1918) are probably her best-known works, although her first novel (1912) was "Alexander's Bridge." She won the 1923 Pulitzer prize for "One of Ours" (1922), but many critics consider "Death Comes for the Archbishop" (1927) Miss Cather's finest work. She died in 1947 and is buried in NH.