When we cling to some wild fancy that all the time we know
Is nothing but a fancy, yet we nurse it till ’twould seem
That the dream alone is real, and the real but a dream.
And so I clung to Georgie, or clung to my faith in him,
And thought of him the long days through, until my eyes were dim.
And my old heart ached full sorely to think that never again
I should see my boy until we stood before the Judge of men.
When one day a big brown-bearded man came rushin’ up to me,
Sayin’ “Mother! my God! have they put you here?” An’ then I see
’Twas Georgie, my boy, come back to me, and I knowed nothin’ more,