The vines and flowers we planted, love, I tend with anxious care,
And yet they droop and fade away, as tho' they wanted air;
They cannot live without thine eyes, to glad them with their light,
Since thy hands ceased to train them, love, they cannot grow aright. Thou art lost to them forever, Isadore.
Our little ones inquire of me, where is their mother gone,—
What answer can I make to them, except with tears alone;
For if I say, to Heaven—then the poor things wish to learn,
How far is it, and where, and when their mother will return. Thou art lost to them forever, Isadore.
Our happy home has now become a lonely, silent place;
Like Heaven without its stars it is, without thy blessed face.
Our little ones are still and sad—none love them now but I,
Except their mother's spirit, which I feel is always nigh. Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore.
