90
Not Understood
He fondled our dear Amy, and she sang to him so gay:
He should have told us that he meant to take her far away.
The night she left us, father dear, I thought my heart would break;
You said she only was asleep,—that soon she would awake:
But months have passed, and still she slumbers in the narrow cave,
Beneath the pretty pansies that we planted on her grave.”
He should have told us that he meant to take her far away.
The night she left us, father dear, I thought my heart would break;
You said she only was asleep,—that soon she would awake:
But months have passed, and still she slumbers in the narrow cave,
Beneath the pretty pansies that we planted on her grave.”
“The year is not to blame, my son, for wheresoe’er he walks,
Behind his back, with mocking strides, a ghastly spectre stalks,
Who crushes oft the fairest flowers until their leaves are dead—
Their essence he cannot destroy, for, soaring o’er his head,
A lovely Angel gathers up the fragrant balm, and pours
The sweet elixir in the stream beyond the azure doors,
Where Cherubs live, and Seraphs sing their never-ending lays,—
Our Amy is above with them, and joins their song of praise.”
Behind his back, with mocking strides, a ghastly spectre stalks,
Who crushes oft the fairest flowers until their leaves are dead—
Their essence he cannot destroy, for, soaring o’er his head,
A lovely Angel gathers up the fragrant balm, and pours
The sweet elixir in the stream beyond the azure doors,
Where Cherubs live, and Seraphs sing their never-ending lays,—
Our Amy is above with them, and joins their song of praise.”
“Oh, father dear, I wish that I were up with Amy, too;
You say the bowers are beautiful beyond the ærial blue.
Each New Year seems to bring along a load of care and strife,—
There seems to be less bliss than pain, dear father, in this life;
The hopes we cherish most to-day, to-morrow change to fears;
The smiles that gild our cheeks to-day, to-morrow turn to tears;
You say the bowers are beautiful beyond the ærial blue.
Each New Year seems to bring along a load of care and strife,—
There seems to be less bliss than pain, dear father, in this life;
The hopes we cherish most to-day, to-morrow change to fears;
The smiles that gild our cheeks to-day, to-morrow turn to tears;
