THE WIDOW.
I
I cannot love another,
I cannot cast aside
The dark weeds of a widow,
For white robes of a bride.
I never more may listen
To Love's beguiling voice;
The sad heart of the mourner
Can make no second choice.
II
Oh! offer nought but friendship,
And I will be your friend;
Speak only of the lost one,
And mark how I'll attend.
His portrait hangs above us—
Dare not to breathe love's name;
Those dark eyes, could I listen,
Would frown upon my shame.
III
And see my child clings to me,
And looks up in my face,—
He has no other parent
To fondle and embrace.
Unconsciously, his finger
My wedding-ring hath press'd,
As if it were to chide me
For smiling on my guest.
