Classic Poem

This saddens me—that never more
On whatsoever golden shore
We twain may meet, will mother and son
Be made through weakness even more fully one.
It breaks my heart to think,
Mother; my one best friend,
That I no more may lend
My aid to thee on the dark river's brink.

So sweet it is—the weakness of old age!
So sweet thy gentle face,—
And in it one might trace
The lessons of long life, pure page by page.
Thou needest me no more!
Thou needest not my arm on which to lean—
Oh God, no angel-form, no heavenly scene,
No palace flashing gems from roof to floor.

Only my mother's figure, slightly bent,
Herself, not able to walk far,
This I desire!—no stately angel sent
From deathless sun or star.