From The Detroit Times, March 4, 1914.
Far away, beyond the glamor of the city and its strife,
There’s a quiet little homestead by the sea
Where a tender, loving lassie used to live a happy life,
Contented in her home as she could be.
Not a shadow seemed to cloud the sunshine of her youth,
And they thought no sorrow her life could befall,
But she left them all one evening, and their sad hearts knew the truth
When her father turned her picture to the wall.
There’s a name that’s never spoken and a mother’s heart half broken,
There is just another missing from the old home, that is all;
There is still a memory living, there’s a father unforgiving,
And a picture that is turned toward the wall.
They have laid away each token of the one who ne’er returns,
Every trinket, every ribbon that she wore;
Tho’ it seems so long ago now, yet the lamp of hope still burns,
And her mother prays to see her child once more;
Tho’ no tidings ever reach them what her life or lot may be,
Tho’ they sometimes think she’s gone beyond recall,
There’s a tender recollection of a face they never see
In the picture that is turned toward the wall.