THE CONFESSION OF MY NEIGHBOUR.
61
The youth in this one crowds all Italy!
This glimmers with the far Pacific's shine.
The first poor little hand that warmed my breast
Wrote this—the date is old: you know the rest.
This glimmers with the far Pacific's shine.
The first poor little hand that warmed my breast
Wrote this—the date is old: you know the rest.
"Oh, if I only could have back my boys,
With their lost gloves and books for me to find,
Their scattered playthings and their pleasant noise!
. . . Is it here in the splendour growing blind,
With hollow hands that backward reach, and ache
For the sweet trouble which the children make."
With their lost gloves and books for me to find,
Their scattered playthings and their pleasant noise!
. . . Is it here in the splendour growing blind,
With hollow hands that backward reach, and ache
For the sweet trouble which the children make."
