Last night a hand pushed on the door
And tirled at the pin.
I turned my face unto the wall,
And could not cry, 'Come in!'
I dared not cry, 'Come in!'
Last night a voice wailed round the house
And called my name upon,
And bitter, bitter did it mourn
'Where is my mother gone?
Where is my mother gone?
'From saintly arms I slipped and flew
Adown the moon-lit skies,
I weary of the paths of Heav'n
And flowers of Paradise—
Sweet scents of Paradise!

'For little children prattle there,
And whisper all the day
Of lovely mothers on the earth,
Where once they used to play,
Who used with them to play.
'They linger laughing by the door,
And wait the threshold on;
I have no memory so fair,
Where is my mother gone?
Where is my mother gone?'
Thrice pushed the hand upon the door
And tirled at the pin.
I turned my face unto the wall,
And could not cry, 'Come in!'
I dared not cry, 'Come in!'