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My mother's kiss, my mother's kiss,
   I feel its impress now;
As in the bright and happy days
   She pressed it on my brow.

You say it is a fancied thing
   Within my memory fraught;
To me it has a sacred place--
   The treasure house of thought.

Again, I feel her fingers glide
   Amid my clustering hair;
I see the love-light in her eyes,
   When all my life was fair.

Again, I hear her gentle voice
   In warning or in love.
How precious was the faith that taught
   My soul of things above.

The music of her voice is stilled,
   Her lips are paled in death.
As precious pearls I'll clasp her words
   Until my latest breath.

The world has scattered round my path
   Honor and wealth and fame;
But naught so precious as the thoughts
   That gather round her name.

And friends have placed upon my brow
   The laurels of renown;
But she first taught me how to wear
   My manhood as a crown.

My hair is silvered o'er with age,
   I'm longing to depart;
To clasp again my mother's hand,
   And be a child at heart.

To roam with her the glory-land
   Where saints and angels greet;
To cast our crowns with songs of love
   At our Redeemer's feet.

                                by  Frances E. W. Harper

 

 

 

 

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