TO MOTHER.
But a few dreary years at the best, Mother, And my head will be silent and low;Then the daisies shall bloom in the spring-time, And the winters shall pile up their snow.
I am weary, so weary of earth, Mother, That I long for the haven of rest;For sorrow has folded her wing in my soul, And sits quite at home in my breast.
All the hopes of my life drift away, Mother, Like the dead autumn leaves on a stream;They have lived, they have died, they have fallen, I remember them now as a dream.
The home that I once called my own, Mother; The children I nursed at my breast—Ah! that home is the dwelling of strangers, And three of my babes lie at rest.
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