Classic Poem

No more our mother meets our sight,
As here she moved from day to day,
Our constant solace and delight;—
She from our home is called away!

Her books, her work are laid aside,
No more the household is her care;
And to our hearts the joy's denied,
At times her daily toils to share.

Her plants, her study and her joy,
With their bright verdure and their bloom,
No more her leisure hours employ,
Nor give to her their sweet perfume.

Long did she labor for our good,
To inform the mind, improve the heart;
Cared for our raiment, health, and food,
With all a mother's love and art.

Far into night her busy hand,
Or thoughtful care our comfort sought;
With morning's light again she planned,
And with untiring patience wrought.

To her we came in every ill,
Whether of body, or of mind;
Sure in her sympathy and skill,
Healing and balm for each to find.

And still, though now we see her not,
I know her thoughts must on us dwell;
That we can never be forgot,
Whom here she loved, and loved so well.

Clothed in immortal form of light,
E'en now, perchance, she hovers round;
Though unperceived by mortal sight,
Nor known by words of mortal sound;

A messenger, by night, by day,
Sent by our heavenly Father's love;
Unseen, to guide us on our way
Unto her blessed home above!