Poems (Ford)/My Mother's Song
MY MOTHER'S SONS.
This quiet Autumn evening, out through the gathering gloom
My thoughts are fondly turning to thee, my dear old home;
And through the misty distance the years seem sad and long
Since 'neath thy roof in childhood I heard my mother's song.
My thoughts are fondly turning to thee, my dear old home;
And through the misty distance the years seem sad and long
Since 'neath thy roof in childhood I heard my mother's song.
A sweet old simple ballad, whose notes were soft and low—
Still o'er my heart its echoes in soothing numbers flow,
Though in the grave's dark chambers the lips are silent long
That by the hearth at even oft sang my mother's song.
Still o'er my heart its echoes in soothing numbers flow,
Though in the grave's dark chambers the lips are silent long
That by the hearth at even oft sang my mother's song.
Oh, mother! though long parted, the memory of thy love
Illumes life's darkest shadows, and points to light above;
It nerves me in my trials to suffer and be strong,—
The sunny days of childhood come back with thy old song.
Illumes life's darkest shadows, and points to light above;
It nerves me in my trials to suffer and be strong,—
The sunny days of childhood come back with thy old song.
On the sad soul, in hours of weariness and pain,
Its notes fall, as on flowers falls the soft summer rain;
And when temptation beckons into the path of wrong,
In tones of gentle warning I hear my mother's song.
Its notes fall, as on flowers falls the soft summer rain;
And when temptation beckons into the path of wrong,
In tones of gentle warning I hear my mother's song.
That dear old song must ever find echo in my heart
Till by Death's icy fingers its chords are snapped apart;
One strain would still be wanting the angel-choirs among,
If there the voice was silent that sang my mother's song.
Till by Death's icy fingers its chords are snapped apart;
One strain would still be wanting the angel-choirs among,
If there the voice was silent that sang my mother's song.