I AM weeping, mother, in your empty chamber; Beyond the pane, a fair familiar scene; As a far dream only may the man remember All the mirth of childhood that hath been-- Hath been here about thy young joy, O my mother, All the mirth and laughter of a child. Was it I, indeed, and not another, Whom you folded in your dear arms undefiled? Our nursery with snowy-folded curtain! Here you came to bless the dreaming boy, All is melted to a memory uncertain, Evening prayer, the game, and many a toy. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MORAL FABLES: THE FOX, THE WOLF, AND THE CADGER by AESOP UPON THE SAME by DECIMUS MAGNUS AUSONIUS THE MOCKING-BIRD by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD THE TWICKENHAM AIR by CHARLES WILLIAM BRODRIBB A POETICAL EPISTLE TO A TAILOR by ROBERT BURNS |