PALE, withered hands that more than four-score years Had wrought for others—soothed the hurt of tears, Rocked children's cradles, eased the fever's smart, Dropped tenderest balm in many an aching heart— Now stirless folded, like wan rose - leaves pressed Above the snow and silence of her breast. In mute appeal they tell of labors done And well-earned rest that came with set of sun; From the worn brow the lines of care are swept As if an angel's kiss the while she slept Had smoothed the cobweb wrinkles quite away And given back the peace of childhood's day. A smile is on the lips as if she said, "None know life's secret save the happy dead." And, gazing where she lies, we feel that pain And parting cannot cleave her soul again. And we are sure that they who saw her last In that dim vista which we call the past, Who never knew her old and weary-eyed, Remembering best the maiden and the bride, Have sprung to greet her with the olden speech, The dear sweet names no later love can teach, And "Welcome Home"they cried, and grasped her hands— So dwells the mother in the best of lands. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LITTLE BOATIE'; A SLUMBER SONG FOR THE FISHERMAN'S CHILD by HENRY VAN DYKE THE BALLAD OF BAZILE BORGNE by IDA COLE BARTLATT WATER MOMENT by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN HOLLY BERRY AND MISTLETOE by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE THE GODDESS IN THE WOOD by RUPERT BROOKE THE HERB-LEECH by JOSEPH CAMPBELL SIDNEY'S ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: CANTO QUINTO. CONTENT by THOMAS CAMPION TO A BANK OF ENGLAND PIGEON by PATRICK REGINALD CHALMERS LOOKING ON, AND DISCOURSING WITH HIS MISTRESS by ABRAHAM COWLEY |