This poem was written by my Great Great Grandfather after his wife passed away. He was a devout man who lived in eastern Tennessee. This would place the writing in the very earliest part of the 1900's in rural Tennessee.
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To:
Allie Vincent (later ID’d as VanZant) Fletcher
Written by: J.C. Fletcher
(James Claude Fletcher)
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I see some angels hover
above an ancient gate,
and I do not wonder;
I know for what they wait.
I hear one of them singing;
The voice I’ve often heard
while crooning over a cradle
just like a nesting bird.
They are the whitest angels,
of all the lovely host,
and on the hills of heaven
their place is uttermost.
They are the Mother angels,
how silently they wait,
until the last white morning
shall close the ancient gate.
Blue and grey-eyed Mothers
shall surely wear a crown,
one I know among the others,
whose eyes were very brown.
Of all the hosts of heaven
The one whom I best know
This one who with me struggled
in this world here below.
When time for me is ended,
and I have crossed the tide;
nothing can do me better
than to lay me by her side.
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Poem generously shared with the Dew by James Pressley