WHEN MOTHER COMBED MY HAIR

When Memory, with gentle hand,

Has led me to that foreign land

Of childhood days, I long to be

Again the boy on bended knee,

With head a-bow, and drowsy smile

Hid in a mother's lap the while,

With tender touch and kindly care,

She bends above and combs my hair.

Ere threats of Time, or ghosts of cares

Had paled it to the hue it wears,

Its tangled threads of amber light

Fell o'er a forehead, fair and white,

That only knew the light caress

Of loving hands, or sudden press

Of kisses that were sifted there

The times when mother combed my hair.

But its last gleams of gold have slipped

Away; and Sorrow's manuscript

Is fashioned of the snowy brow —

So lined and underscored now

That you, to see it, scarce would guess

It e'er had felt the fond caress

Of loving lips, or known the care

Of those dear hands that combed my hair.

I am so tired! Let me be

A moment at my mother's knee;

One moment — that I may forget

The trials waiting for me yet:

One moment free from every pain —

O! Mother! Comb my hair again!

And I will, oh, so humbly bow,

For I've a wife that combs it now.