Classic Poem

Busy and quiet, and sweet and wise,
With a long life's thought in her gentle eyes—
The hoarding of many a year—
Nearer drawing, from sun to sun,
To the peaceful goal of a race well run,
Walting her record of work well done
In the hearts that hold her dear.

Grandmother's locks, all silvery white,
Seem to my fancy like bands of light,
Crowning her sweet pale face.
Grandmother's voice is tender and low;
And the fall of her footsteps soft and slow,
As hither and yonder, and to and fro,
She glides with a saintly grace.

Grandmother's mission, for every day,
Is to do the duty that comes her way,
Whatever that duty may be.
To think of others, her self forgot,
To dry sad tears when her own are wet,
Is Grandmother's plan—and the best one yet,—
'Twere a good one for you and me.

She has her griefs, though she hides them well,
Her heart still throbs when a tolling bell
Utters its mournful tone.
For she thinks of a knell rung long ago,
Of a far off grave underneath the snow,
And a silent sleeper on pillow low,
Whose lips once pressed her own.

Thirty years—'tis a lonely while!
Yet Grandmother's face wears a peaceful smile
As she sits in the sunset glow.
She is busy still, as evening light
Falls on her hair, so silvery white:
And she softly speaks of the coming night—
She is biding her time to go.