Page:Poems Cook.djvu/99

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I MISS THEE, MOTHER.
I miss thee, my Mother, in summer's fair day,
When I rest in the ivy-wreathed bower;
When I hang thy pet linnet's cage high on the spray,
Or gaze on thy favourite flower.
There's the bright gravel-path where I play'd by thy side,
When Time had scarce wrinkled thy brow,
Where I carefully led thee with worshipping pride,
When thy glossy locks gather'd the snow.

I miss thee, my Mother, in winter's long night:
I remember the tales thou wouldst tell—
The romance of wild fancy, the legend of fright—
Oh who could e'er tell them so well?
Thy corner is vacant; thy chair is removed;
It was kind to take that from my eye:
Yet relics are round me—the sacred and loved—
To call up the pure sorrow-fed sigh.

I miss thee, my Mother, oh, when do I not?
Though I know 'twas the wisdom of Heaven
That the deepest shade fell on my sunniest spot;
And such tie of devotion was riven.
For when thou wert with me, my soul was below;
I was chain'd to the world I then trod;
My affections, my thoughts, were all earth-bound; but now
They have follow'd thy spirit to God!


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