From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 11, 1913. By Will B. Tomlinson. Toward glories eternal, a vision appears Through the mists of the morning, the sunshine and tears. ’Tis the smile of my Mother, as sacred with joy As the greeting celestial she bends to her boy. And her love is as true and as precious to me As it was in the years when I knelt at her knee And her hand in caressing lay soft on my head As she prayed for a blessing, in days that are fled. Often wayward and thoughtless I know I have been. I have wounded the heart that appealed for me then. Still, I feel that in heaven I’m never forgot For if others forsake me, my Mother will not. When I look at myself, I’ve nothing to claim— Neither merit, nor wealth, nor plaudits of fame. But I grudge not to others such blessings as fall For the love of my Mother is better than all. Here’s a blossom, the fairest, as pure as the dew Else I never could wear it, dear Mother, for you. And I would that its fragrance were wafted afar Like the vapor of incense, or beam of a star Till it tells you in heaven, with breathings divine That I love you, dear Mother, sweet Mother of mine.