  My head is aching, and I wish That I could feel tonight One well-remembered, tender touch That used to comfort me so much, And put distress to flight. There's not a soothing anodyne Or sedative I know, Such potency can ever hold As that which lovingly controlled My spirit long ago. How oft my burning cheek as if By Zephyrus was fanned, And nothing interdicted pain Or seemed to make me well again So quick as mother's hand. 'Tis years and years since it was laid, In her own gentle way, On tangled curls of brown and jet Above the downy coverlet 'Neath which the children lay. As bright as blessed sunlight ray The past comes back to me; For a little group of tender age Who gather at her knee. And when those hands together clasped Devout and still were we; To whom it seemed God then and there Must surely answer such a prayer, For none could pray as she. O buried love with her that passed Into the Silent Land! O haunting vision of the night! I see, encoffined, still, and white, A mother's face and hand. |
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