![]() | The poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich | ![]() |
A MOOD
A blight, a gloom, I know not what, has crept upon my gladness—Some vague, remote ancestral touch of sorrow, or of madness;
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A sense of longing, or of loss, in some foregone existence;
A subtle hurt that never pen has writ nor tongue has spoken—
Such hurt perchance as Nature feels when a blossomed bough is broken.
![]() | The poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich | ![]() |