Wherever my feet may wander
    Wherever I chance to be,
There comes, with the coming of even' time
    A vision sweet to me.
I see my mother sitting
    In the old familiar place,
And she rocks to the tune her needles sing,
    And thinks of an absent face.

I can hear the roar of the city
    About me now as I write;
But over an hundred miles of snow
    My thought-steeds fly to-night,
To the dear little cozy cottage,
    And the room where mother sits,
And slowly rocks in her easy chair
    And thinks of me as she knits.

Sometimes with the merry dancers
    When my feet are keeping time,
And my heart beats high, as young hearts will,
    To the music's rhythmic chime.
My spirit slips over the distance
    Out of the glitter and whirl,
To my mother who sits, and rocks, and knits,
    And thinks of her "little girl."

When I listen to voices that flatter,
    And smile, as women do,
To whispered words that may be sweet,
    But are not always true;
I think of the sweet, quaint picture
    Afar in quiet ways,
And I know one smile of my mother's eyes
    Is better than all their praise.

And I know I can never wander
    Far from the path of right,
Though snares are set for a woman's feet
    In places that seem most bright.
For the vision is with me always,
    Wherever I chance to be,
Of mother sitting, rocking and knitting,
    Thinking and praying for me.

Poems of reflection. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago, M.A. Donohue & company [c1905].

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