Folded Hands.

Folded Hands.
399.1

Pale, withered hands, that more than four-score yearn
Had wrought for others, soothed the hurt of
Rocked children’s cradles, cessed the fever’s smart,
Dropped balm of lovin many an aching heart,
Now attrien folded like wan ross leaves pressed,
Above the know and alience of her breitet,
In mute appeal they told of labors done
And well earned rest that caine at set of sun.

From the word brew the lines of care had swept.
An if nit king, the while she slept
Had smoothed the cobweb wrinkles quite away,
And given back the peace of childhood day
And on the lips th the faint amile ainoat said,
None know life’s secret but the happy dead.”
So gazing where the lay, we knew that pain
And parting could not cleave her soul again.

And we were sure that those who saw her last
In that dim vista which we call the past,
Who never knew her old and laid aalde,
Remembering best the thaiden and the bride
Had sprung to greet her with the olden speech,
The dear, sweet namen, no later tore can teach
And “Welcome home,” they crted, and grasped her hands;
Bo dwelleth the mother in the best of landa.