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Each day I miss thee more,
In that the friends who thronged around
Pass—each on his own mission bound—
And all goes on as heretofore.
Each day more clearly—this perhaps is well—
The difference measureless I see,
Mother, between the love that spake through thee
And love that speaks—with its own tale to tell.
In that the friends who thronged around
Pass—each on his own mission bound—
And all goes on as heretofore.
Each day more clearly—this perhaps is well—
The difference measureless I see,
Mother, between the love that spake through thee
And love that speaks—with its own tale to tell.
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