 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
102
AGAIN.
Mother, I come to thee again,
As in my shadowed hours of old,
But oh, I find thee not as then,—
The sod above thy heart is cold;
I hear no more thy whisper's thrill,
I feel no more thy lip's soft touch,—
Thy voice is mute, thy heart is still,
And I am changed almost as much!
As in my shadowed hours of old,
But oh, I find thee not as then,—
The sod above thy heart is cold;
I hear no more thy whisper's thrill,
I feel no more thy lip's soft touch,—
Thy voice is mute, thy heart is still,
And I am changed almost as much!
For fate my trembling steps has led
Where sorrow's bitter waters swell,
And showers from love's pure fountain shed,
Have changed to tear-drops as they fell;
And now for many a weary year,
Since I have strayed away from thee,
Thy low neglected pillow here
Has only seemed like home to me.
Where sorrow's bitter waters swell,
And showers from love's pure fountain shed,
Have changed to tear-drops as they fell;
And now for many a weary year,
Since I have strayed away from thee,
Thy low neglected pillow here
Has only seemed like home to me.
103
And though across my forehead now,
Time's lines and furrows are not drawn,
Though years rest lightly on my brow,
The spring-time of my heart is gone;—
And I could envy thy sweet rest,
Thy calm release from pain and care,—
Could gladly sleep upon thy breast,
And find a blessed solace there!
Time's lines and furrows are not drawn,
Though years rest lightly on my brow,
The spring-time of my heart is gone;—
And I could envy thy sweet rest,
Thy calm release from pain and care,—
Could gladly sleep upon thy breast,
And find a blessed solace there!
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |