60
THE CONFESSION OF MY NEIGHBOUR.
"I did not know that I had everything,
Till—I remembered it. Ah me! ah me!
I who had ears to hear the wild-bird sing,
And eyes to see the violets. . . . It must be
A bitter fate that jewels the grey hair,
Which once was golden and had flowers to wear.
Till—I remembered it. Ah me! ah me!
I who had ears to hear the wild-bird sing,
And eyes to see the violets. . . . It must be
A bitter fate that jewels the grey hair,
Which once was golden and had flowers to wear.
"In the old house, in my old room, for years,
The haunted cradle of my little ones gone
Would hardly let me look at it for tears.
. . . O my lost nurslings! I stay on and on,
Only to miss you from the empty light
Of my low fire—with my own grave in sight.
The haunted cradle of my little ones gone
Would hardly let me look at it for tears.
. . . O my lost nurslings! I stay on and on,
Only to miss you from the empty light
Of my low fire—with my own grave in sight.
"In the old house, too, in its own old place,
Handsome and young, and looking towards the gate
Through which it flushed to meet me, is a face
For which, ah me! I never more shall wait—
For which, ah me! I wait for ever, I
Who for the hope of it, can surely die.
Handsome and young, and looking towards the gate
Through which it flushed to meet me, is a face
For which, ah me! I never more shall wait—
For which, ah me! I wait for ever, I
Who for the hope of it, can surely die.
"Young men write gracious letters here to me,
That ought to fill this mother-heart of mine.
That ought to fill this mother-heart of mine.
