Music from my ear hath fled,
Yet still a sweet tone lingereth there,
The blessing that my mother shed
Upon my evening prayer.
Dim is my wasted eye
To all that beauty brings,
The brow of grace,—the form of symmetry
Are half-forgotten things;—
Yet one bright hue is vivid still,
A mother's holy smile that soothed my sharpest ill.
Memory, with traitor-tread
Methinks, doth steal away
Treasures that the mind had laid
Up for a wintry day:—
Images of sacred power,
Cherished deep in passion's hour,
Faintly now my bosom stir,
Good and evil like a dream
Half obscured and shadowy seem,
Yet with a changeless love my soul remembereth her,
Yea,—it remembereth her,
Close by her blessed side, make ye my sepulchre.
Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/28
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BARZILLAI THE GILEADITE.
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