The thread in the hand of a kind mother
Is the coat on the wanderer's back.
Before he left she stitched it close
In secret fear that he would be slow to return.
Who will say that the inch of grass in his heart
Is gratitude enough for all the sunshine of spring?
Yarns after yarns,
Mother's busy weaving,
It is a coat for my son who will be leaving.
Stitches upon stitches,
Mother toiled all night,
Please return home soon if you might.
Your graceful love was sunshine in the spring
Tr. S.L. Lee
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