IMAGINATION  OR  REAL

Mother Dear I hear you calling

   Tell me sweetheart, did you call?

Perhaps ‘twas only dead leaves falling

   From the trees so green and tall.

 

Tell me – was I only dreaming?

   I couldn’t be, it seemed so clear,

Those same words ever to me seeming,

   “Come home, my boy your Mothers here”.

 

At night sometimes, I hear it clearer,

   At night, when all the stars do shine,

A sweet soft voice, I know none dearer,

   That precious voice of Mother Mine.

 

Sometimes too when I an riding,

   Riding through the bright green trees,

A voice I hear, and yet in hiding,

   It seems to shelter in the breeze.