Oh! my dear mother

Oh! my dear mother, art thou still awake?
Or art thou sleeping on thy Maker’s arm,—
Waiting in slumber for the shrill alarm
Ordain’d to give the world its final shake?
Art thou with ‘interlunar night’ opaque
Clad like a worm while waiting for its wings;
Or doth the shadow of departed things
Dwell on thy soul as on a breezeless lake!
Oh! would that I could see thee in thy heaven
For one brief hour, and know I was forgiven
For all the pain and doubt and rankling shame
Which I have caused to make thee weep or sigh.
Bootless the wish! for where thou are on high,
Sin casts no shadow, sorrow hath no name.