Wherever my feet may wander 
Wherever I chance to be, 
There comes, with the coming of even' time 
A vision sweet to me. 
I see my mother sitting 
In the old familiar place, 
And she rocks to the tune her needles sing, 
And thinks of an absent face.
I can hear the roar of the city 
AAbout me now as I write; 
But over an hundred miles of snow 
My thought-steeds fly tonight, 
To the dear little cozy cottage, 
And the room where mother sits, 
And slowly rocks in her easy chair 
And thinks of me as she knits.
Sometimes with the merry dancers 
When my feet are keeping time, 
And my heart beats high, as young hearts will, 
To the music's rhythmic chime. 
My spirit slips over the distance 
Over the glitter and whirl, 
To my mother who sits, and rocks, and knits, 
And thinks of her "little girl."
And when I listen to voices that flatter, 
And smile, as women do, 
To whispered words that may be sweet, 
But are not always true; 
I think of the sweet, quaint picture 
Afar in quiet ways, 
And I know one smile of my mother's eyes 
Is better than all their praise.
And I know I can never wander 
Far from the path of right, 
Though snares are set for a woman's feet 
In places that seem most bright. 
For the vision is with me always, 
Wherever I chance to be, 
Of mother sitting, rocking, and knitting, 
Thinking and praying for me.