Saturday, January 24, 2015


By Beatrice M. Hanson

There is a small old-fashioned house,
Beside a busy road

With windows dressed in ruffled white,
To match the seasons mode.
There is no path up to the door
The snow lies still and white
And only a women dreaming
Can be seen in a shaft of light.
She sits all day in her easy-chair
From morn until the night.
Her hands lie idle in her lap,
Her eyes have lost their sight.
While she herself has fled from care,
Her chains she’s thrust away!
And light and free as a winging bird,
She’s flown to the yesterdays.

Don’t let your heart be full of pain,
Your eyes fill up with tears,
For Mother’s gone where she loves best,
Her favorite Yesteryear's.