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  My Mother's Kiss  


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.

       - Frances E. W. Harper

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