As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.
But when the morn came dim and sad
And chill with early showers,
Her queit eyelids closed – she had
Another morn than ours.
Similar Posts
Love thy mother, little one!
Hereafter she may have a sonWill kiss and clasp her neck in vain.Love thy mother, little one!Gaze upon her living eyes,And mirror back her love for thee,—Hereafter thou mayst shudder sighsTo meet them when they cannot see.Gaze upon her living eyes!Press her lips the while they glowWith love that they have often told,—Hereafter thou mayst…
Sigh on, sad heart, for Love’s eclipse
Though ’tis not for my peasant lipsTo soil her name between:A king might lay his sceptre down,But I am poor and nought,The brow should wear a golden crownThat wears her in its thought.The diamonds glancing in her hair,Whose sudden beams surprise,Might bid such humble hopes bewareThe glancing of her eyes;Yet looking once, I look’d too…
The Song of the Shirt
With eyelids heavy and red,A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,Plying her needle and thread–Stitch! stitch! stitch!In poverty, hunger, and dirt,And still with a voice of dolorous pitchShe sang the ‘Song of the Shirt.’‘Work! work! work!While the cock is crowing aloof!And work — work — work,Till the stars shine through the roof!It’s Oh! to be a…
I had a gig-horse, and I called him Pleasure
He was so fast and showy, quite a treasure;Although he sometimes kicked and shied aslant.I had a chaise, and christened it Enjoyment,With yellow body and the wheels of red,Because it was only used for one employment,Namely, to go wherever Pleasure led.I had a wife, her nickname was Delight:A son called Frolic, who was never still:Alas!…
I
Where Pride is buried,—like its very ghost,Uprisen from the naked bones below,In novel flesh, clad in the silent boastOf gaudy silk that flutters to and fro,Shedding its chilling superstition mostOn young and ignorant natures—as it wontTo haunt the peaceful churchyard of Bedfont!IIEach Sabbath morning, at the hour of prayer,Behold two maidens, up the quiet greenShining,…
Oh, very gloomy is the house of woe,
With all the dark solemnities that showThat Death is in the dwelling!Oh, very, very dreary is the roomWhere Love, domestic Love, no longer nestles,But smitten by the common stroke of doom,The corpse lies on the trestles!But house of woe, and hearse, and sable pall,The narrow home of the departed mortal,Ne’er looked so gloomy as that…