Old Songs Poem by John Bliven Morin

When I was just a little boy,
I heard my mother sing,
While cleaning, cooking, keeping house;
O how her voice would ring!

Her voice was unprofessional,
But to her little boy,
It sounded like an angel’s song,
Because she sang for joy.

She sang the songs of years ago,
The nineteenth century,
But to her small, enraptured child,
They all seemed new to me.

The years flow by so very swift,
And I became a man;
I raised a family of my own,
And still my mother sang.

But then one day an illness came,
My mother’s mind to steal;
I brought her home with me to stay,
And hopefully, to heal.

Alas, there was no medicine
In all the doctors’ lore,
And at last there came a day
My mother sang no more.

But when her fears would take her,
And I could see her pain,
I’d sing to her those old, old songs,
And she would smile again.

The years flow by so very swift;
A year is like a day;
How many years have passed me since
My mother passed away?

Now I am old and gray myself,
I’m bent as an old spring,
And while I clean and while I cook,
My neighbors hear me sing.

I sing the songs of long ago,
My mother’s songs, with ease,
Because they fill my heart with warmth
And treasured memories.