My Mother's hands, so thin and work-worn,
Were loved by me as jewels, rare,
For they had rocked me in my cradle,
And, lovingly, they'd stroked my hair.
They worked for me, both night and morning;
They helped to smooth away my fears,
For never were these dear hands idle;
I think of them with love and tears!
My Mother's hands to me were precious:
I thought their beauty was sublime;
I felt no harm on earth could touch me
If they were near me all the time!
--Gertrude Tooley Buckingham
