My Mother's Hand.

My head is aching, and I wish
    That I could feel tonight
One well-remembered, tender touch
That used to comfort me so much,
    And put distress to flight.

There's not a soothing anodyne
    Or sedative I know,
Such potency can ever hold
As that which lovingly controlled
    My spirit long ago.

How oft my burning cheek as if
    By Zephyrus was fanned,
And nothing interdicted pain
Or seemed to make me well again
    So quick as mother's hand.

'Tis years and years since it was laid,
    In her own gentle way,
On tangled curls of brown and jet
Above the downy coverlet
    'Neath which the children lay.

As bright as blessed sunlight ray
    The past comes back to me;
Her fingers turn the sacred page
For a little group of tender age
    Who gather at her knee.

And when those hands together clasped
    Devout and still were we;
To whom it seemed God then and there
Must surely answer such a prayer,
    For none could pray as she.

O buried love with her that passed
    Into the Silent Land!
O haunting vision of the night!
I see, encoffined, still, and white,
    A mother's face and hand.

Hattie Howard

Hattie Howard is recognized for her significant contributions to 19th-century American poetry. Her work, characterized by its wit and lyrical quality, often explored themes of nature, love, and social issues. She had a unique voice that resonated with many of her contemporaries and continues to be appreciated for its depth and artistry.

Hattie Howard

Not Gone.

Hattie Howard, Simple Poetry

Is It April?

Hattie Howard, Simple Poetry

A Bit of Gladness.

Hattie Howard, Simple Poetry

Christmas Bells.

Hattie Howard, Simple Poetry

English

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My Mother's Kiss.

My mother's kiss, my mother's kiss,
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You say it is a fancied thing
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Again, I feel her fingers glide
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The music of her voice is stilled,
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To Mother

I would that you should know,
Dear mother, that I love you -- love you so!
That I remember other days and years;
Remember childish joys and childish fears.
And this, because my baby's little hand
Opened my own heart's door and made me understand.

I wonder how you could
Be always kind and good!
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Swifter than ancient seer's.
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Mothers

    Through the vigils deep of the sable night
        A mother sits in grief alone,
    For her sons have gone to the battle front
        And left on the hearth a crushing stone.
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        She sees God's arm in pity reach;
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        Heroic hearts and souls to teach.

    The blue is spann'd and the tide goes out.
        And the stars rain down a kindlier cheer;
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        Fills all the rounds of our common day -
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        And fills with light each hidden way.

    For Miss Ina Coolbrith.

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When Mother Combed My Hair

When Memory, with gentle hand,
Has led me to that foreign land
Of childhood days, I long to be
Again the boy on bended knee,
With head a-bow, and drowsy smile
Hid in a mother's lap the while,
With tender touch and kindly care,
She bends above and combs my hair.

Ere threats of Time, or ghosts of cares
Had paled it to the hue it wears,
Its tangled threads of amber light
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Of kisses that were sifted there
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But its last gleams of gold have slipped
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Of Her who Died.

We look up to the stars tonight,
    Idolatrous of them,
And dream that Heaven is in sight,
And each a ray of purest light
    From some celestial gem
    In her bright diadem.

Before that lonely home we wait,
    Ah! nevermore to see
Her lovely form within the gate
Where heart and hearthstone desolate
    And vine and shrub and tree
    Seem asking: "Where is she?"

There is the cottage Love had planned -
    Where hope in ashes lies -
A tower beautiful to stand,
Her monument whose gentle hand
    And presence in the skies
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In wintry bleakness nature glows
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Mother. - Alpha and Omega.

Mother! Mother!
    The startled cry of childish fright
    Rang through the silence of the night,
    As but the mother's fond caress
    Could soothe its infantile distress;
    And the mother answered, with loving stroke
    Of her gentle hand, as she softly spoke:
    "Hush, hush, my child, that troubled cry;
    What evil can harm thee, with mother nigh?"

Mother! Mother!
    Long years have passed, and the fevered brow
    Of a bearded man, she is stroking now,
    As through delirium and pain
    He cries as a little child, again.
    And the mother answered, with loving stroke
    Of her careworn hand, as she softly spoke:
    "Hush, hush, my child, that troubled cry;
    What evil can harm thee, with mother nigh?"

Mother! Mother!<...

Alfred Castner King