the dying boy.
35
And thought of the sweet spring and summer days
Which, each revolving year, make the green earth
So beautiful, and how they all would pass
Over my grave, and I should see them not—
I thought how sad it were to be forgotten.
Will it be so, dear mother? I would care
But little if all others should forget;
But I was thinking, that you too, perhaps,
When you grew older, and your tears were dried,
And I had slumbered long, you might forget
The timid boy who wandered by your side
In the sweet garden paths at close of day,
Or gathered wild flowers in the shady nooks
Of the old pasture meadow; he who knelt
Each morn and eve, to lisp his childish prayers
Low at your knee, and grasped your gentle hand,
When the clear Sabbath bells rang joyously,
To seek our heavenly Father's hallowed house;
You might forget the hour when he was wont
To come with bounding step and gleesome call,
From his wood rambles to your open arms.
Will it be so, dear mother? Must I die,
And you forget your child?"
Which, each revolving year, make the green earth
So beautiful, and how they all would pass
Over my grave, and I should see them not—
I thought how sad it were to be forgotten.
Will it be so, dear mother? I would care
But little if all others should forget;
But I was thinking, that you too, perhaps,
When you grew older, and your tears were dried,
And I had slumbered long, you might forget
The timid boy who wandered by your side
In the sweet garden paths at close of day,
Or gathered wild flowers in the shady nooks
Of the old pasture meadow; he who knelt
Each morn and eve, to lisp his childish prayers
Low at your knee, and grasped your gentle hand,
When the clear Sabbath bells rang joyously,
To seek our heavenly Father's hallowed house;
You might forget the hour when he was wont
To come with bounding step and gleesome call,
From his wood rambles to your open arms.
Will it be so, dear mother? Must I die,
And you forget your child?"
