“Down by the meadows long and wet, The willow-walks are made; And now and then a violet Grows in the willow’s shade. “The dandelion and mullin bloom By the glossy buttercups’ bed; And the thistle looks like a soldier’s plume With its beautiful tip of red! “The blackberries grow by the stony wall, You may pick them as you pass; The strawberries, too, but so scattered and small You must hunt them in the grass! “All these along the highway shine; And as I see from here The turnpike’s long and winding line, My heart sends up a tear! “For they were the only things to cheer The long and weary mile! The only things for many a year That ever wore a smile! “Oh, mother, in our idle hours We’ll wander down the glen, And I’ll show you some of the simple flowers That smiled upon me then! “Come, let us walk by the road and search, There where the poplars stand; That I may carry some flowers to church To-morrow in my hand! “Then, where the old woman is doomed to lie In the mound so new and bare, I’ll slip aside, as we go by, And quietly lay them there. “So that if she is up in Heaven, Singing the angels’ psalms, She may know that all has been forgiven By these beautiful bright alms! “The good man told us, the other day, We must forgive our foes! And I forgive her; though she, you say, Was the mother of my woes! “I love to hear the church organ blow When the people rise from their places! And the children stand in a shining row And sing with happy faces! “Their sweet hymns make my heart rejoice Like a blue-bird in the spring; But when I try to raise my voice I weep; for I cannot sing! “Their strain has a sweet and delicate tone; But mine has none of such; It seems more like the wind’s low moan Of which I have heard so much! “Then, since my voice will not join with theirs, In my heart I try to pray, And I whisper o’er those little prayers You taught me how to say! “Say, mother, why did the preacher place His dripping hand on the little child? And did you not mark its rosy face How angel-like it smiled? “When I was so very, very small, Did you carry me up the aisle, And when I felt the waters fall, Say, did I weep or smile? “And then again in the afternoon They brought another there, The while the organ’s solemn tune, Hung heavy on the air. “But this one in its coffin lay, While its mother sobbed aloud; And its little hands were cold as clay, And its face was white as its shroud. “Then they slowly lowered it into the ground, While the pebbles down after it slid; And, mother, I still can hear the sound Of the gravel upon the lid!