I shall not forget you, mother; I shall hear you when you pass,
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.
I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now;
You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow;
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild;
You should not fret for me, mother--you have another child.
If I can, I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place;
Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;
Though I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you say.
And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away.
Good night! good night! when I have said good night forevermore,
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door,
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green,--
She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been.
She'll find my garden tools upon the granary floor.
Let her take 'em--they are hers; I shall never garden more.
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I set
About the parlor window and the box of mignonette.
Good night, sweet-mother! Call me before the day is born.
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn;
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year,--
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.
CONCLUSION.
I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am;
And in the fields all around I hear the bleating of the lamb.
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year!
To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here.
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