Alone

Loved, wedded, and caressed, Although her children died She still seemed doubly blest, Her helpmate at her side More dear than all the rest!

But sorrow did not kill The thought of those so dear, Who all her feelings fill, As though still with her here To play about her still.

Her little children’s fate She never could recall, Yet lived she desolate, For she had lost them all,— And then she lost her mate.

When came that hour of woe And all she loved was gone, Not sorrow’s keenest blow Left her fond heart alone; No parting could it know.

Nigh her he still appears, The early times so cling; Her simple heart still hears Her children laugh and sing As in the happy years.

The dead to her remain; She heeds each gentle sound Of theirs within her brain, And answers smiling round: ‘Sweet love, say that again!’

Is it that angels dwell In that lone mother’s breast? She knows not what befell, And so is doubly blest: No more her heart can tell.