Page:Felicia Hemans in Forget Me Not 1828.pdf/4

And well the sleeper knows them not of earth,
    Not as they were when binding up the flowers
Telling wild legends, round the winter hearth,
    Braiding their long fair hair for festal hours;
These things are past;— a spiritual gleam,
A solemn glory, robes them in that dream.

Yet, if the glee of life's fresh budding years,
    In those pure aspects may no more be read,
Thence, too, hath sorrow melted—and the tears
    Which o'er their mother's holy dust they shed
Are all effaced;—there earth has left no sign,
Save its deep love, still touching every line.

But oh! more soft, more tender, breathing more
    A thought of pity than in vanish'd days;
While, hovering silently and brightly o'er
    The lone one's head, they meet her spirit's gaze
With their immortal eyes, that seem to say,
"Yet, sister!—yet we love thee—come away!"