"
"Truth indeed! but, oh! compassion! Have you sought to scan my sorrow?"
(Mother, you shall meekly ponder, list'ning to that common tale)
"Does your heart repeat its echo, or by fellow-feeling borrow
Even a tone that might avail?
"Might avail to steal it from me, by its deep heart-warm affection?
Might perceive by strength of loving how the fond words to combine?
Surely no! I will be silent, in your soul is no reflection
Of the care that burdens mine!"
When the winter twilight gathers, Father, and your thoughts shall wander,
Sitting lonely you shall blend him with your listless reveries,
Half forgetful what division holds the form whereon you ponder
From its place upon your knees--
With a start of recollection, with a half-reproachful wonder,
Of itself the heart shall question, "Art Thou then no longer here?
Is it so, my little Henry? Are we set so far asunder
Who were wont to be so near?"
While the fire-light dimly flickers, and the lengthened shades are meeting,
To itself the heart shall answer, "He shall come to me no more:
I shall never hear his footsteps nor the child's sweet voice entreating
For admission at my door.
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