 | Poems by William D. Howells |  |
130
THE MYSTERIES.
Once on my mother's breast, a child, I crept,
Holding my breath;
There, safe and sad, lay shuddering, and wept
At the dark mystery of Death.
Holding my breath;
There, safe and sad, lay shuddering, and wept
At the dark mystery of Death.
Weary and weak, and worn with all unrest,
Spent with the strife,—
O mother, let me weep upon thy breast
At the sad mystery of Life!
Spent with the strife,—
O mother, let me weep upon thy breast
At the sad mystery of Life!
| Poems by William D. Howells | |