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Poem	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 AAbout me now as I write; But over an hundred miles of snow My thought-steeds fly tonight, 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 Over the glitter and whirl, To my mother who sits, and rocks, and knits, And thinks of her "little girl." And 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.
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