AT TWILIGHT.
The room is peopled with visions That fill me with sadness and pain,For I know that my past happy hours Can never come to me again.My eyes are aweary of weeping, My soul is prophetic of gloom,My being is filled with a sadness That whispers of death and the tomb.
For myself, I would care not to linger Where every thing breathes of despair;The grave has no bitterness for me, No sorrow could torture me there.How peacefully in its cold bosom Would slumber my grief-burdened head!—But what would become of my darling, My boy, if his mother were dead?
My beautiful boy, in his childhood Who never has known a harsh tone,
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