My Mother's Hand.

My head is aching, and I wish         That I could feel tonight     One well-remembered, tender touch     That used to comfort me so much,         And put distress to flight.     There's not a soothing anodyne         Or sedative I know,     Such potency can ever hold     As that which lovingly controlled         My spirit long ago.     How oft my burning cheek as if         By Zephyrus was fanned,     And nothing interdicted pain     Or seemed to make me well again         So quick as mother's hand.     'Tis years and years since it was laid,         In her own gentle way,     On tangled curls of brown and jet     Above the downy coverlet         'Neath which the children lay.     As bright as blessed sunlight ray         The past comes back to me;     Her fingers turn the sacred page     For a little group of tender age         Who gather at her knee.     And when those hands together clasped         Devout and still were we;     To whom it seemed God then and there     Must surely answer such a prayer,         For none could pray as she.     O buried love with her that passed         Into the Silent Land!     O haunting vision of the night!     I see, encoffined, still, and white,         A mother's face and hand.