Youth’s candles are quenched, and my mother is dead.
And yet ev’ry Friday, when twilight arrives,
The face of my mother within me revives;
A prayer on her lips, ‘O Almighty, be blessed,
For sending us Sabbath, the angel of rest.’
And some hidden feeling I cannot control
A Sabbath light kindles deep, deep in my soul.
P. M. RASKIN.