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By the fireside sat my mother
With her knitting-work in hands.
In and out the needles dancing,
Seeming they love's tireless wands.


As she worked she sang some ditty,
Or she crooned a cradle rhyme.
Painted was this sweet home picture
On the wall in long-gone time.


Turning over memory's tablets,
Many pictures fair I see;
Also shadows in the distance
Time, the artist, shows to me.


First, my mother by the fireside.
Seeing it I often weep.
On my heart is picture painted,
And with love I it shall keep.


Photographed by tears, another--
Patient mother--work all done--
Heard these words--"Thou faithful servant"--
Come, sweet soul, to rest you've won.


O the picture of my mother!
On its surface not one stain.
When all else on earth has vanished,
Mother's picture will remain.