I opened a worn trunk yesterday,
Sitting alone in my quiet room,
And sighed as I saw them folded away, ―
The garments there,― for the form that lay
Clad in white robes in the silent tomb.

I lifted each with the tenderest care,
And laid them out in the morning breeze ;
The caps and 'kerchiefs she used to wear,
With keepsakes, letters, and locks of hair ;
And paused to muse when I came to these,

The glasses that aided her aged eyes,
Grown dim from sorrows and length of years;
She slept, at last, and earth's mists and tears
Were changed for the brightness of Paradise.

Does she watch, I wonder, with yearning gaze,
For one she longeth to welcome there ?
When, loosed from the fetters of earth and sin,
The white-robed angels glide softly in,
Does she mark the features the ransomed wear ?

If so, how long must the watcher wait
Till she clasps the pilgrim she longs to greet ?
Must my eyes grow dim, must I tarry late
Ere I catch the gleam, near the golden gate,
Of glances with mother-love replete ?

How long till my glasses are laid aside
To gather dust in the years to come ?
To be found, perchance, at some distant day,
By those I love, who will softly say,
'No tear-dimmed eyes in her radiant Home.'