Might kiss away the pain—might soothe
This dull, cold, heavy pain.
“But, gentle mother, through life’s storms
I may not lean on thee;
For helpless, cowering little forms,
Cling trustingly to me.—Poor babes!
To have no guide but me.
“With weary foot and broken wing,
With bleeding heart and sore,
Thy dove looks backward sorrowing