Its Mothers Day by Katherine Carey-Place 1878-1934

It’s Mother’s Day, and out upon the breeze,
	I hear the chime of bells,
While violets blue as heavenly skies,
	Are blooming in the dells,
And happy children wend their way,
	Each with a flower bright,
And aged sires and women gray,
	Are wearing flowers white,
		On Mother’s Day.

On Mother’s Day, if still she’s here,
	To love, to cherish and to keep,
Thou hast been blessed indeed,
	Thou needest not weep,
But send to her a garland fair,
	Wherever you may roam,
Send her your love, that she may know,
	You think of her back home,
		On Mother’s Day.

On Mother’s Day, if joy is yours,
	To wear a garland bright,
Think of the multitudes that wear,
	A flower starry white,
Oh, day of joy, Oh day of peace,
	And a day of sadness too,
Of all the flowers bright,
	Which one will you be wearing, gay or white,
		On Mother’s Day.

Katherine Carey-Place 1878-1934
May 1927

Copyright Roy Richard

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