LINES
written at midnight, in the anticipation of a dreaded bereavement.
Though to the passing world my heart
A quiet, untouch'd thing may seem,
It bleeds, my Mother, bleeds for thee;
My love, my sorrow, and my theme.
A quiet, untouch'd thing may seem,
It bleeds, my Mother, bleeds for thee;
My love, my sorrow, and my theme.
How many a night these aching eyes
Have watch'd beside thy wasting form;
Watch'd, like the anxious mariner,
Who marks and dreads the coming storm.
Have watch'd beside thy wasting form;
Watch'd, like the anxious mariner,
Who marks and dreads the coming storm.
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