Page:Poems Crandall.djvu/73

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At last with bruised and bleeding heart
  She lay with pain all ashiver;
The mother clasped her in her arms
  Each sensitive nerve aquiver.

She pressed her lips to the sunny curls,
  Till ceased the pitiful moaning;
And then that she with her child might die
  She prayed with sobs and groaning.

And when the father sought his child;
  The mother sad and tearful,
Said, "Oh, my husband, our child is dead,"
  His face grew pale and fearful.

She beckoned him into the shaded room
  And stood by, silently weeping;
"Oh wake her, wake her," he hoarsely cried,
  "I know she is only sleeping."

He kissed the cold and clammy face
  Once full of life and gladness,
He smoothed her curls, he chaffed her hands,
  He raised her up in his madness.

Too late—too late—your loving words
  Can stir her pulses never;
Yours be the cold and lifeless form.
  But the soul has gone forever.

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