 | A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England |  |
308
THE LITTLE HAND.
We wandered sadly round the room,—
We missed the voice's play,
That warbled through our hours of gloom,
And charmed the cloud away;—
We missed the voice's play,
That warbled through our hours of gloom,
And charmed the cloud away;—
We missed the footstep, loved and light,—
The tiny, twining hand,—
The quick, arch smile, so wildly bright,—
The brow, with beauty bland!
The tiny, twining hand,—
The quick, arch smile, so wildly bright,—
The brow, with beauty bland!
We wandered sadly round the room,—
No relic could we find,
No toy of hers, to soothe our gloom,—
She left not one behind!
No relic could we find,
No toy of hers, to soothe our gloom,—
She left not one behind!
But look! there is a misty trace,
Faint, undefined and broken,
Of fingers, on the mirror's face,—
A dear, though simple token!
Faint, undefined and broken,
Of fingers, on the mirror's face,—
A dear, though simple token!
309
A cherub hand!—the child we loved
Had left its impress there,
When first, by young Ambition moved,
She climbed the easy-chair;—
Had left its impress there,
When first, by young Ambition moved,
She climbed the easy-chair;—
She saw her own sweet self, and tried
To touch what seemed to be
So near, so beautiful! and cried,—
“Why! there's another me!”
To touch what seemed to be
So near, so beautiful! and cried,—
“Why! there's another me!”
Dear hand! though from the mirror's face
Thy form did soon depart,
I wore its welcome, tender trace,
Long after, in my heart!
Thy form did soon depart,
I wore its welcome, tender trace,
Long after, in my heart!
| A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England | |