Statues Poem by Timber Koleden

One Morning when the fog was rolling in its billows
I was walking on a little cobbled path near the willows.
My wandering feet carried me to a hedged gate
‘Yond was a flower garden with a fountain to precipitate.
Here I stopped by the silver waters, tinkled falling
Being poured out by etched statues, in a pair standing.
They stood, farmer-lad with wind-blown shocks, and farmer-lass,
With waving frozen locks, both slim and young, with tunics of glass.
They both were tipping a stone picture with tender hands
Their eyes were kind, and they smiled very slightly, gently, and
Despite the chill of the fog and the glazing of the frost
They stood weath'ring wind and snows, standing no matter the cost.
The gales have come up and blown on they: they remain,
Ev'n when the flowers wither and die, they steadfast remain.
And they smile unrelenting, and ever pour out their waters
To refresh in the summer heat and unfreezing in winter.
I noted they were cracked, here and there, by age fractured
And I wondered how long they had been standing, unnurtured.
As I was resting there pond'ring the length of these seas'ns
I saw another person and thus perceived all the reasons.
Up the path was coming a weary old woman, frail and
Her hair was white, her eyes deep as wells of mem'ry, with weak hands.
Her face was sad, for she had seen sorrow in her days
And my heart grieved for her, O! that she would smile today!
But lo! When her tired eyes passed over me, and looked on stone
Statues' stone, and she so sweetly smiled, a smile to warm old bones.
She sat down on the bench facing them, wrapp'd her in her shawl
And young eyes met old eyes, smiles drew out smiles: I watched it all!
I realized the statues stood there despite the crack'd pain
Not out of pleasure—lasting passing seasons is no gain—
They stand out of love for the woman, to make her glad.
Her own children are dead now, and the sorrow makes her sad.
They are there, the last mem'ry of her children's love everlasting
Love they keep alive for her, that she might cease her crying.
I left the garden that foggy day, with a joyful heart
To have seen love working its necess'ry, patient part!