THE SILENT HOUSE.
No gay laughter rippling lightly On the soft rose-scented air—Not a youthful tone of gladness— No quick step upon the stair.
Yet his presence ever lingers In the quiet shaded hall,Looking downward from the pictures That are hanging from the wall.
Living fresh amid the roses Waving in their rarest bloom,Thrilling with his dear remembrance Every thing about his room.
What a host of tender memories In his mother's heart must rise,When the sunlight through the window Sends the glory of the skies!
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