SHE moves about the house with meek content, Her face is like a psalm from other years; She only guesses half of what is meant, But hides her impotence, her natural tears. Whenso we gather close for jest or tale She shuns the circle, lest it fret our mood To raise our voices till our joyance fail; She sits apart in patient quietude. And though we try to make her lot more bright, To set her in our midst and show her love (For she is lovesome), yet few glimpse aright Her desolation and the cross thereof. Dear God, may recompense be hers from Thee; May melodies from days gone by come back To fill her silence, and a symphony Played soft, of angels, soothe her sorry lack, That, while she sits and makes no least demur, Left much to loneliness and forced apart, She have companionship to comfort her, And hear a constant singing in her heart. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOMESDAY BOOK: HENRY BAKER, AT NEW YORK by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TO THE MEMORY OF BEN JONSON by JOHN CLEVELAND THE MESSAGE, FR. THE FAIR MAID OF THE EXCHANGE by THOMAS HEYWOOD THE WHITE COMRADE (AFTER W.H. LEATHAM'S 'THE COMRADE IN WHIRE') by ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER VERSES FOR A GUEST ROOM by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS ODES: BOOK 1: ODE 17. ON A SERMON AGAINST GLORY by MARK AKENSIDE EVENING by ISABELLA LOCKHART ALDERMAN |