When Memory, with gentle hand, <br />Has led me to that foreign land <br />Of childhood days, I long to be <br />Again the boy on bended knee, <br />With head a-bow, and drowsy smile <br />Hid in a mother's lap the while, <br />With tender touch and kindly care, <br />She bends above and combs my hair. <br /> <br />Ere threats of Time, or ghosts of cares <br />Had paled it to the hue it wears, <br />Its tangled threads of amber light <br />Fell o'er a forehead, fair and white, <br />That only knew the light caress <br />Of loving hands, or sudden press <br />Of kisses that were sifted there <br />The times when mother combed my hair. <br /> <br />But its last gleams of gold have slipped <br />Away; and Sorrow's manuscript <br />Is fashioned of the snowy brow-- <br />So lined and underscored now <br />That you, to see it, scarce would guess <br />It e'er had felt the fond caress <br />Of loving lips, or known the care <br />Of those dear hands that combed my hair. <br /> <br />. . . . . . . . <br /> <br />I am so tired! Let me be <br />A moment at my mother's knee; <br />One moment--that I may forget <br />The trials waiting for me yet: <br />One moment free from every pain-- <br />O! Mother! Comb my hair again! <br />And I will, oh, so humbly bow, <br />For I've a wife that combs it now.<br /><br />James Whitcomb Riley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-mother-combed-my-hair/
