SAD HOURS.
WRITTEN AT DRUMFORK, 1848
Hours, long hours of weariness are mine—
Hours that but tell of world's strife to thee;
'Tis well their anguish thou canst ne'er divine—
A mother's hopeless grief is a deep mystery.
Hours that but tell of world's strife to thee;
'Tis well their anguish thou canst ne'er divine—
A mother's hopeless grief is a deep mystery.
Man's hopes and feelings, passions, active all,
Have scope, and play upon each thing of life;
How unlike woman's, that concentrate, fall
Back on the heart that wars not with its strife.
Have scope, and play upon each thing of life;
How unlike woman's, that concentrate, fall
Back on the heart that wars not with its strife.
If thou wouldst keep dark thoughts from brooding near,
Or lift the sadness from the aching brow,
Keep back the fulness of the falling tear,
And let no heart-throb beat as mine does now.
Or lift the sadness from the aching brow,
Keep back the fulness of the falling tear,
And let no heart-throb beat as mine does now.
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