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MOTHER'S DUST RAG
It seems to me as I look back
Into that far and lovely land
Of youth, that mother always held
A dust rag tightly in her hand.
She wiped the chairs and cleaned the rugs
And polished every windowpane;
She washed the dishes and the jars;
And then she cleaned them all again.
She kept a spotless house and home.
She gave a living mother love.
I know just what she's doing now
In heavenly mansions far above.
When old Saint Peter must have known
And saw the smile upon her face,
I know it was a fairer land;
I'm sure it was a cleaner place.
I think St. Peter must have known
My mother's ways and turned his face
And chuckled when he said to her,
"We'll have to tidy up this place!"
I know my mother laughed with joy
To find some task that she could do
And started in to dust the stars
And brighten up the skies of blue.
I think I hear my mother's voice;
I think I hear her laugh aloud
As old St. Peter sends her out
To polish up a silver cloud.
I know how happy she would be
Each Monday morning there on high
If she could wash the angels' robes
And hang them on the stars to dry.
It is a curious dream to dream,
It is so strange a thing to say;
But that was always mother's joy,
And that was always mother's way.
[Poem included in I Saw God Wash The World, 1934.]
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