I DREAMED you were living, not with the dead,
For you came and knelt by my trundle bed.
I have needed you, Mother, oh so much;
I have missed your loving, caressing touch.

I don’t know what I am going to do,
Because my sky has lost its blue.
Dreams help me a lot for I find you there.
With me in your arms, in our rocking chair.

I want God to know, O Mother of Mine,
That you have made heaven much more divine.
If all the mothers were just like you,
Earth would be heaven—God’s work would be through.

– By Everett Wentworth Hill