Classic Poem

TO MY MOTHER.

SOMETIMES it seems thy face — thy long-hid face —
Looks out on me as from a passing cloud,
Till I forget they clad thee in thy shroud,
And laid thee sleeping in thy far-off place —
So once again the tender, healing grace
Of thy dear presence is to me allowed.
Wilt thou not bless the head before thee bowed?
Wilt not thy voice thrill through the empty space?

How lone and cold the world without thee seemed!
Regaining thee, how warm it is and bright!
Yet all in vain to reach thee do I seek: —
And then I wake to know I have but dreamed,
And thou art silent as the silent night —
With tears I call thee, yet thou dost not speak.