 | City Poems |  |
“O, mother, mother!”
“They have left me here,
Upon this dark and dreadful, dreadful road;
I cannot hear a voice or touch a hand;
O Father, take me home!” She sobbed and wept
As if she were a little wandered child.
Her Father took her home. I stooped to catch
Her feeble breath; a change came o'er her look,
A flutter in her throat, and all was peace.
Then slowly I grew conscious that the dawn
Filled the square window with his hateful face,
Staring into the chamber of the dead,—
And with affrighted eyes I gazed on him.
Upon this dark and dreadful, dreadful road;
I cannot hear a voice or touch a hand;
O Father, take me home!” She sobbed and wept
As if she were a little wandered child.
Her Father took her home. I stooped to catch
Her feeble breath; a change came o'er her look,
A flutter in her throat, and all was peace.
Then slowly I grew conscious that the dawn
Filled the square window with his hateful face,
Staring into the chamber of the dead,—
And with affrighted eyes I gazed on him.
| City Poems | |