The Golden Treasury | ||
The broad white brow of the Isle—that bay with the colour'd sand—
Rich was the rose of sunset there, as we drew to the land;
All so quiet the ripple would hardly blanch into spray
At the feet of the cliff; and I pray'd—‘my child’—for I still could pray—
‘May her life be as blissfully calm, be never gloom'd by the curse
Of a sin, not hers!’
Rich was the rose of sunset there, as we drew to the land;
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At the feet of the cliff; and I pray'd—‘my child’—for I still could pray—
‘May her life be as blissfully calm, be never gloom'd by the curse
Of a sin, not hers!’
Was it well with the child?
I wrote to the nurse
Who had borne my flower on her hireling heart; and an answer came
Not from the nurse—nor yet to the wife—to her maiden name!
I shook as I open'd the letter—I knew that hand too well—
And from it a scrap, clipt out of the ‘deaths’ in a paper, fell.
‘Ten long sweet summer days’ of fever, and want of care!
And gone—that day of the storm—O Mother, she came to me there.
Who had borne my flower on her hireling heart; and an answer came
Not from the nurse—nor yet to the wife—to her maiden name!
I shook as I open'd the letter—I knew that hand too well—
And from it a scrap, clipt out of the ‘deaths’ in a paper, fell.
‘Ten long sweet summer days’ of fever, and want of care!
And gone—that day of the storm—O Mother, she came to me there.
The Golden Treasury | ||