  I sit when the shadows are stealing The light of departing day, And think of the scenes and pleasures I enjoyed in my childhood's play. I can picture them all so plainly, They seemed not a day gone by, I recall the fields and garden, The lake and the clear blue sky. I can see the bright water flowing At the foot of the sloping hill, The dam that impeded its progress, The toy-wheel of water-mill. I can trace every line and feature Of trees and the shadows they cast, The lanes, the rocks, and orchards, That on journey to school were past. I can close my eyes for an instant And draw a scene to my mind, That seems like a photo-engraving, As true, as complete, as defined. Time's flight has not dim'd or shaded One outline the scenes gave then, Though the years that have intervened, Are nearly two score and ten. There's a central, attractive figure, With heart unselfish and warm, That always appears in the picture— 'Tis my mother's benignant form. I can see her in all the beauty And glow of a mother's pride, As she patiently watched and labored For her children at her side. How sweet to my soul is the power To so clearly these scenes portray; I pray that to life's latest hour This bliss be not taken away. |
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