MotherBy Laura Simmons(In the “Boston Herald.”)
By Laura Simmons
(In the “Boston Herald.”)
Oh, Mother—hands of balm and gracious healing,And cool, soft fingers that could heal and bless!So sure to charm the aching and the feverWith magic spell and soothing tenderness.Oh, Mother—feet that grew so very tiredTreading Life’s pavements and its burning sands!Have they found rest at last, and cooling watersWhere they may stop to loose their earthly bands?Oh, Mother—eyes so keen to probe the sorrows!So quick to see the hurt and understand!Do they not shine tonight from highest HeavenBright with the old-time courage, high and grand?Oh, Mother—heart so wise and tender—That has not died, nor failed, but lived and wroughtIn deeds and words—in daily work and action—In lovely memory and blessed thought!Oh, Mother—love that lives past death and parting!That reaches still to bless and guard and guide,To hold me from the snare undreamed and waiting—To point the refuge where I yet may hide!And, oh—the things my heart hath yearned to utter!The joys that thrilled—the pain that seared and scarred!But I must wait—I, too—till sunset’s splendorShall hold for me its shining gates unbarred.Past joy, past sorrow, past the driving torrentOf tears, I see her stand and watch for me;And clear the sweet old Mother-question cometh:“Oh, child—dear child! And is all well with thee?”
Oh, Mother—hands of balm and gracious healing,And cool, soft fingers that could heal and bless!So sure to charm the aching and the feverWith magic spell and soothing tenderness.Oh, Mother—feet that grew so very tiredTreading Life’s pavements and its burning sands!Have they found rest at last, and cooling watersWhere they may stop to loose their earthly bands?Oh, Mother—eyes so keen to probe the sorrows!So quick to see the hurt and understand!Do they not shine tonight from highest HeavenBright with the old-time courage, high and grand?Oh, Mother—heart so wise and tender—That has not died, nor failed, but lived and wroughtIn deeds and words—in daily work and action—In lovely memory and blessed thought!Oh, Mother—love that lives past death and parting!That reaches still to bless and guard and guide,To hold me from the snare undreamed and waiting—To point the refuge where I yet may hide!And, oh—the things my heart hath yearned to utter!The joys that thrilled—the pain that seared and scarred!But I must wait—I, too—till sunset’s splendorShall hold for me its shining gates unbarred.Past joy, past sorrow, past the driving torrentOf tears, I see her stand and watch for me;And clear the sweet old Mother-question cometh:“Oh, child—dear child! And is all well with thee?”
Oh, Mother—hands of balm and gracious healing,And cool, soft fingers that could heal and bless!So sure to charm the aching and the feverWith magic spell and soothing tenderness.
Oh, Mother—hands of balm and gracious healing,
And cool, soft fingers that could heal and bless!
So sure to charm the aching and the fever
With magic spell and soothing tenderness.
Oh, Mother—feet that grew so very tiredTreading Life’s pavements and its burning sands!Have they found rest at last, and cooling watersWhere they may stop to loose their earthly bands?
Oh, Mother—feet that grew so very tired
Treading Life’s pavements and its burning sands!
Have they found rest at last, and cooling waters
Where they may stop to loose their earthly bands?
Oh, Mother—eyes so keen to probe the sorrows!So quick to see the hurt and understand!Do they not shine tonight from highest HeavenBright with the old-time courage, high and grand?
Oh, Mother—eyes so keen to probe the sorrows!
So quick to see the hurt and understand!
Do they not shine tonight from highest Heaven
Bright with the old-time courage, high and grand?
Oh, Mother—heart so wise and tender—That has not died, nor failed, but lived and wroughtIn deeds and words—in daily work and action—In lovely memory and blessed thought!
Oh, Mother—heart so wise and tender—
That has not died, nor failed, but lived and wrought
In deeds and words—in daily work and action—
In lovely memory and blessed thought!
Oh, Mother—love that lives past death and parting!That reaches still to bless and guard and guide,To hold me from the snare undreamed and waiting—To point the refuge where I yet may hide!
Oh, Mother—love that lives past death and parting!
That reaches still to bless and guard and guide,
To hold me from the snare undreamed and waiting—
To point the refuge where I yet may hide!
And, oh—the things my heart hath yearned to utter!The joys that thrilled—the pain that seared and scarred!But I must wait—I, too—till sunset’s splendorShall hold for me its shining gates unbarred.
And, oh—the things my heart hath yearned to utter!
The joys that thrilled—the pain that seared and scarred!
But I must wait—I, too—till sunset’s splendor
Shall hold for me its shining gates unbarred.
Past joy, past sorrow, past the driving torrentOf tears, I see her stand and watch for me;And clear the sweet old Mother-question cometh:“Oh, child—dear child! And is all well with thee?”
Past joy, past sorrow, past the driving torrent
Of tears, I see her stand and watch for me;
And clear the sweet old Mother-question cometh:
“Oh, child—dear child! And is all well with thee?”