In all These years of doing and development, My heart was haunted by a bitter pain. In every scene of pleasure, every hour That lacked employment, every moment's lull Of toil or study, its familiar hand Was raised aloft, to smite me with its pang. From month to month, from year to year, I saw That she who bore me, and to whom I owed The meek and loyal reverence of a child, Was changing places with me, and that she-- Dependent, trustful and subordinate-- Deferred to me in all things, and in all Gave me the parent's place and took the child's. She waited for my coming like a child; She ran to meet and greet me like a child; She leaned on me for guidance and defence, And lived in me, and by me, like a child. If I were absent long beyond my wont, She yielded to distresses and to tears; And when I came, she flew into my arms With childish impulse of delight, or chid With weak complainings my delay. By these, And by a thousand other childish ways, I knew disease was busy with her life, Working distempers in her heart and brain, And driving her for succor to my strength. The change was great in her, though slowly wrought,-- Though wrought so slowly that my thought and life Had been adjusted to it, but for this:-- One dismal night, a trivial accident Had kept me from my home beyond the hour At which my promise stood for my return. Arriving at the garden gate, I paused To catch a glimpse of the accustomed light, Through the cold mist that wrapped me, but in vain. Only one window glimmered through the gloom, Through whose uncurtained panes I dimly saw My mother in her chamber. She was clad In the white robe of rest; but to and fro She crossed the light, sometimes with hands pressed close Upon her brow, sometimes raised up toward heaven, As if in deprecation or despair; And through the strident soughing of the elm I heard her voice, still musical in woe, Wailing and calling. With a noiseless step I reached the door, and, with a noiseless key, Turned back the bolt, and stood within. I could Have called her to my arms, and quelled her fears By one dear word, and yet, I spoke it not. I longed to learn her secret, and to know In what recess of history or heart It hid, and wrought her awful malady. Not long I waited, when I heard her voice Wail out again in wild, beseeching prayer,-- Her voice so sweet and soulful, that it seemed As if a listening fiend could not refuse Such help as in him lay, although her tongue Should falter to articulate her pain.