Last night a hand pushed on the door And tirled at the pin. I turned my face unto the wall, And could not cry, 'Come in!' I dared not cry, 'Come in!' Last night a voice wailed round the house And called my name upon, And bitter, bitter did it mourn 'Where is my mother gone? Where is my mother gone? 'From saintly arms I slipped and flew Adown the moon-lit skies, I weary of the paths of Heav'n And flowers of Paradise- Sweet scents of Paradise! 'For little children prattle there, And whisper all the day Of lovely mothers on the earth, Where once they used to play, Who used with them to play. 'They linger laughing by the door, And wait the threshold on; I have no memory so fair, Where is my mother gone? Where is my mother gone?' Thrice pushed the hand upon the door And tirled at the pin. I turned my face unto the wall, And could not cry, 'Come in!' I dared not cry, 'Come in!' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN EPITAPH, INTENDED FOR HIMSELF by JAMES BEATTIE MY LADY'S TEARS by JOHN DOWLAND IN THE SHADOWS: 20 by DAVID GRAY (1838-1861) THE HOUSE WITH NOBODY IN IT by ALFRED JOYCE KILMER THE AUTHOR'S EPITAPH, MADE BY HIMSELF by WALTER RALEIGH |