Classic Poem

This memory of my mother stays with me
— Throughout the years: the way she used to stand
— Framed in the door when any of her band
Of children left . . . as long as she could see
Their forms, she gazed, as if she seemed to be
— Trying to guard — to meet some far demand;
— And then before she turned to tasks at hand,
She breathed a little prayer inaudibly.

And now, I think, in some far heavenly place,
— She watches still, and yet is not distressed,
But rather as one who, after life's long race,
— Has found contentment in a well-earned rest,
There, in a peaceful dreamlike reverie,
She waits, from earthly cares forever free.

This memory of my mother stays with me
— Throughout the years: the way she used to stand
— Framed in the door when any of her band
Of children left . . . as long as she could see
Their forms, she gazed, as if she seemed to be
— Trying to guard — to meet some far demand;
— And then before she turned to tasks at hand,
She breathed a little prayer inaudibly.

And now, I think, in some far heavenly place,
— She watches still, and yet is not distressed,
But rather as one who, after life's long race,
— Has found contentment in a well-earned rest,
There, in a peaceful dreamlike reverie,
She waits, from earthly cares forever free.