| Share page | Visit Us On FB |
|
THE MEMORY; OF THE DEAD. 285
'Tis not that I have ceased to love, Or deem thou couldst unfaithful prove,
My hest, my dearest one. Not that I am unhappy here, Yet let me drop this silent tear—
Thou wilt not be distress'd, To know the mem'ry of my home, Of friends I left, with thee to roam,
Steals sometimes o'er my breast.
The memory of my mother's tone, Of pleasant hours forever flown,
Comes with a sudden thrill; Wakening the chords about my heart "Till the wild floods of feeling start,
And tears of sadness swell.
I know thou wilt not love me less,
Nor chide me with harsh words for this—
It only tells how dear Are those within my heart enshrined, While thou art tenderly entwined
With every feeling there.
THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. How mournfully sweet it glides o'er the soul Like passion's wave which we cannot control! It comes Uke a cloud o'er the sky of mirth, Like a veil of sadness to shadow the earth. |
||