A little longer on the earth
That aged creature's eyes repose
( Though half their light and all their mirth
Are gone ); and then for ever close.
She thinks that something done long since
Ill pleases God:— or why should He
So long delay to take her hence
Who waits His will so lovingly?
Whene'er she hears the church-bells toll
She lifts her head, though not her eyes,
With wrinkled hands, but youthful soul,
Counting her lip-worn rosaries.
And many times the weight of years
Falls from her in her waking dreams:
A child her mother's voice she hears:
To tend her father's steps she seems.
Once more she hears the whispering rains
On flowers and paths her childhood trod;
And of things present nought remains
Save the abiding sense of God.
Mary! make smooth her downward way!
Not dearer to the young thou art
Than her. Make glad her latest May;
And hold her, dying, on thy heart.