HERE, in her old work-basket-- Now that my mother's gone-- I find a thread of silver-- A single hair alone. Than filigree more slender; And yet that thread is strong To draw my heart and crush it, Till tears are all its song. I knew when her locks were golden, And here, night after night, Over this old work-basket, I saw them change to white. This little thread surviving, That tender mother gone!-- What wonder I am weeping As I sit here alone! |