THE LITTLE PEASANT.
19
THE LITTLE PEASANT.[*]
Unstrung by her heart's first sorrow In the dawn of her life she stands,With listless fingers holding A vacant nest in her hands.
The grass at her feet no longer Is bright with the light of the skies,As downward she looks through the tear-drops That stand in her heaven-blue eyes.
For the nest, so cold and forsaken, Has taught her the lesson to-day,That the dearest of earthly treasures Have wings and can fly away.
Yet she clings to the empty casket. And sighs that no more is left,As a mother clings to the cradle Of its dimpled treasure bereft.
Alas! for the early sorrows That gather about our way,When the beautiful light has vanished, And the hill-tops are cold and gray
↑ * A statue by E. D. Palmer.
