'T IS not Diana on her bow
I seem to see, so straight and spare,—
A lady moving to and fro
So calmly in a rocking chair.

Like some old clock's slow pendulum,
Her wavy line, her features fair,
Across my memories go and come,—
The lady in the rocking chair.

In woman's realm, a little home,—
Her little arc of life's carèer,—
I see sweep past her silver comb;
The lady in the rocking chair.

It makes me weep, it makes me sleep,
That gentle motion tell me where
I felt it o'er the ocean deep?—
Dear mother, in thy rocking chair!