Mother by Katherine Carey-Place 1878-1934

We’re going to miss her when she’s gone, little mother,
We’re going to miss the slender grace, the gentle eyes, the patient face.
We’re going to see the empty pace,
And wish that we had kept her.

She’s just a little frailer than she was a year ago,
She’s just a little paler, and her step is getting slow,
We think she’s somewhat sadder,
Why, we ought to make her gladder, before we let her go.

Life will never be the same when mother isn’t here,
And home won’t be the homey place with mother gone, I fear,
We ought to put her on a throne and crown her queen of all,
We ought to grant her slightest wish before the angels call.

For we’re going to miss her loving ways, her council, and her cheer,
So we ought to make her happy, and just love her while she’s here,
For homes are lonely homes and dread, and years are cold and bare,
When we cross the old time threshold, and find no mother there.

Katherine Carey-Place 1878-1934
August 1925

Copyright Roy Richard

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