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bertha.
That measure of good that fills its scope:
The marmot enters the stiffening mould,
And the worm its dark, sepulchral fold,
To hide there with its beautiful hope."
The marmot enters the stiffening mould,
And the worm its dark, sepulchral fold,
To hide there with its beautiful hope."
Yet Bertha waited on the cliff,
To catch the gleam of a coming sail,
And the distant whisper of the gale
Winging the unforgotten home:—
And hope at her yearning heart would knock,
When a sunbeam on a far-off rock
Married a wreath of wandering foam.
To catch the gleam of a coming sail,
And the distant whisper of the gale
Winging the unforgotten home:—
And hope at her yearning heart would knock,
When a sunbeam on a far-off rock
Married a wreath of wandering foam.
Was it well? you ask—(nay, was it ill?)
Who sat last year by the old man's hearth,—
The sun had passed below the earth,
And the first star locked his western gate—
When Bertha entered her darkening home,
And smiling, said: "He does not come,
But, dearest Father, we still can wait!"
Who sat last year by the old man's hearth,—
The sun had passed below the earth,
And the first star locked his western gate—
When Bertha entered her darkening home,
And smiling, said: "He does not come,
But, dearest Father, we still can wait!"
