THE SONG MY MOTHER SINGS
O SWEET unto my heart is the song my mother singsAs eventide is brooding on its dark and noiseless wings!Every note is charged with memory—every memory bright with raysOf the golden hours of promise in the lap of childhood's days.The orchard blooms anew, and each blossom scents the way,And I feel again the breath of eve among the new-mown hay;While through the halls of memory in happy notes there ringsAll the life-joy of the past in the song my mother sings.I have listened to the dreamy notes of Chopin and of Liszt,As they dripped and drooped about my heart and filled my eyes with mist;I have wept strong tears of pathos 'neath the spell of Verdi's power,As I heard the tenor voice of grief from out the donjon tower;And Gounod's oratorios are full of notes sublimeThat stir the heart with rapture thro' the sacred pulse of time;But all the music of the past, and the wealth that memory brings,Seem as nothing when I listen to the song my mother sings.It's a song of love and triumph, it's a song of toil and care,It is filled with chords of pathos, and it's set in notes of prayer;It is bright with dreams and visions of the days that are to be,And as strong in faith's devotion as the heart-beat of the sea;It is linked in mystic measure to sweet voices from above,And is starred with ripest blessing thro' a mother's sacred love.O sweet and strong and tender are the memories that it brings,As I list in joy and rapture to the song my mother sings!
O SWEET unto my heart is the song my mother singsAs eventide is brooding on its dark and noiseless wings!Every note is charged with memory—every memory bright with raysOf the golden hours of promise in the lap of childhood's days.The orchard blooms anew, and each blossom scents the way,And I feel again the breath of eve among the new-mown hay;While through the halls of memory in happy notes there ringsAll the life-joy of the past in the song my mother sings.I have listened to the dreamy notes of Chopin and of Liszt,As they dripped and drooped about my heart and filled my eyes with mist;I have wept strong tears of pathos 'neath the spell of Verdi's power,As I heard the tenor voice of grief from out the donjon tower;And Gounod's oratorios are full of notes sublimeThat stir the heart with rapture thro' the sacred pulse of time;But all the music of the past, and the wealth that memory brings,Seem as nothing when I listen to the song my mother sings.It's a song of love and triumph, it's a song of toil and care,It is filled with chords of pathos, and it's set in notes of prayer;It is bright with dreams and visions of the days that are to be,And as strong in faith's devotion as the heart-beat of the sea;It is linked in mystic measure to sweet voices from above,And is starred with ripest blessing thro' a mother's sacred love.O sweet and strong and tender are the memories that it brings,As I list in joy and rapture to the song my mother sings!
O SWEET unto my heart is the song my mother singsAs eventide is brooding on its dark and noiseless wings!Every note is charged with memory—every memory bright with raysOf the golden hours of promise in the lap of childhood's days.The orchard blooms anew, and each blossom scents the way,And I feel again the breath of eve among the new-mown hay;While through the halls of memory in happy notes there ringsAll the life-joy of the past in the song my mother sings.
O SWEET unto my heart is the song my mother sings
As eventide is brooding on its dark and noiseless wings!
Every note is charged with memory—every memory bright with rays
Of the golden hours of promise in the lap of childhood's days.
The orchard blooms anew, and each blossom scents the way,
And I feel again the breath of eve among the new-mown hay;
While through the halls of memory in happy notes there rings
All the life-joy of the past in the song my mother sings.
I have listened to the dreamy notes of Chopin and of Liszt,As they dripped and drooped about my heart and filled my eyes with mist;I have wept strong tears of pathos 'neath the spell of Verdi's power,As I heard the tenor voice of grief from out the donjon tower;And Gounod's oratorios are full of notes sublimeThat stir the heart with rapture thro' the sacred pulse of time;But all the music of the past, and the wealth that memory brings,Seem as nothing when I listen to the song my mother sings.
I have listened to the dreamy notes of Chopin and of Liszt,
As they dripped and drooped about my heart and filled my eyes with mist;
I have wept strong tears of pathos 'neath the spell of Verdi's power,
As I heard the tenor voice of grief from out the donjon tower;
And Gounod's oratorios are full of notes sublime
That stir the heart with rapture thro' the sacred pulse of time;
But all the music of the past, and the wealth that memory brings,
Seem as nothing when I listen to the song my mother sings.
It's a song of love and triumph, it's a song of toil and care,It is filled with chords of pathos, and it's set in notes of prayer;It is bright with dreams and visions of the days that are to be,And as strong in faith's devotion as the heart-beat of the sea;It is linked in mystic measure to sweet voices from above,And is starred with ripest blessing thro' a mother's sacred love.O sweet and strong and tender are the memories that it brings,As I list in joy and rapture to the song my mother sings!
It's a song of love and triumph, it's a song of toil and care,
It is filled with chords of pathos, and it's set in notes of prayer;
It is bright with dreams and visions of the days that are to be,
And as strong in faith's devotion as the heart-beat of the sea;
It is linked in mystic measure to sweet voices from above,
And is starred with ripest blessing thro' a mother's sacred love.
O sweet and strong and tender are the memories that it brings,
As I list in joy and rapture to the song my mother sings!