The Flight of Time

"Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight..."

That's the snippet of verse that runs through my mind as another summer is coming to its end.

The vintage photograph at the top of this post was in a tray of old Kodachrome slides, photos taken by my grandfather, this one likely in the 1940s. It's a photo of Mollie Spicer Beach, my mother's first cousin. I recognized her here though I only knew her as an older lady with thick, curly white hair and lips glossy with bright red lipstick, the kind that always left a little trace on the coffee cup.

It's a beautiful, essentially autumnal photograph. I wonder if she knew she was going to be her uncle's model when she donned the red coat, tied a kerchief on her head and selected the matching red pumps.

The snippet of verse also came to me from my grandfather. He often used it in his weekly newspaper column when reminiscing about the good old days.

It was easy to find the entire poem, written by 19th century poet Elizabeth Akers Allen. "Rock Me To Sleep" found popularity during the Civil War.

Some dispute arose when another (male) writer claimed to have written this verse though it is generally accepted that she was the author. Critics pointed out she wrote better poetry.

With all its sentimentality and nostalgia, here is "Rock Me To Sleep."

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,

Make me a child again just for tonight!

Mother, come back from the echoless shore,

Take me again to your heart as of yore;

Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,

Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;

Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;—      

Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!

I am so weary of toil and of tears,—      

Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,—   

Take them, and give me my childhood again!

I have grown weary of dust and decay,—   

Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;

Weary of sowing for others to reap;—   

Rock me to sleep, mother – rock me to sleep!

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,

Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!

Many a summer the grass has grown green,

Blossomed and faded, our faces between:

Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,

Long I tonight for your presence again.

Come from the silence so long and so deep;—   

Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!

Over my heart, in the days that are flown,

No love like mother-love ever has shone;

No other worship abides and endures,—      

Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:

None like a mother can charm away pain

From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.

Slumber’s soft calms o’er my heavy lids creep;—      

Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,

Fall on your shoulders again as of old;

Let it drop over my forehead tonight,

Shading my faint eyes away from the light;

For with its sunny-edged shadows once more

Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;

Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;—   

Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long

Since I last listened your lullaby song:

Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem

Womanhood’s years have been only a dream.

Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,

With your light lashes just sweeping my face,

Never hereafter to wake or to weep;—      

Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!