Life
Infant — wailing in nameless fear; An
— A shadow, perchance, in the quiet room,
Or the hum of an insect flying near,
— Or the screech owl's cry in the outer gloom.
A little child on the sun-checked floor;
— A broken toy, and a tear-stained face;
A young life clouded, a young heart sore,
— And the great clock, Time, ticks on apace.
A maiden weeping in bitter pain;
— Two white hands clasped on an aching brow;
A blighted faith, a fond hope slain,
— A shattered trust, and a broken vow.
A matron holding a baby's shoe;
— The hot tears gather and fall at will
On the knitted ribbon of white and blue,
— For the foot that wore it is cold and still.
An aged woman upon her bed,
— Worn and wearied, and poor and old,
Longing to rest with the happy dead;
— And thus the story of life is told.
Where is the season of careless glee;
— Where is the moment that holds no pain?
Life has its crosses from infancy
— Down to the grave — A RE Its H OPES IN V AIN ?
Infant — wailing in nameless fear; An
— A shadow, perchance, in the quiet room,
Or the hum of an insect flying near,
— Or the screech owl's cry in the outer gloom.
A little child on the sun-checked floor;
— A broken toy, and a tear-stained face;
A young life clouded, a young heart sore,
— And the great clock, Time, ticks on apace.
A maiden weeping in bitter pain;
— Two white hands clasped on an aching brow;
A blighted faith, a fond hope slain,
— A shattered trust, and a broken vow.
A matron holding a baby's shoe;
— The hot tears gather and fall at will
On the knitted ribbon of white and blue,
— For the foot that wore it is cold and still.
An aged woman upon her bed,
— Worn and wearied, and poor and old,
Longing to rest with the happy dead;
— And thus the story of life is told.
Where is the season of careless glee;
— Where is the moment that holds no pain?
Life has its crosses from infancy
— Down to the grave — A RE Its H OPES IN V AIN ?
— A shadow, perchance, in the quiet room,
Or the hum of an insect flying near,
— Or the screech owl's cry in the outer gloom.
A little child on the sun-checked floor;
— A broken toy, and a tear-stained face;
A young life clouded, a young heart sore,
— And the great clock, Time, ticks on apace.
A maiden weeping in bitter pain;
— Two white hands clasped on an aching brow;
A blighted faith, a fond hope slain,
— A shattered trust, and a broken vow.
A matron holding a baby's shoe;
— The hot tears gather and fall at will
On the knitted ribbon of white and blue,
— For the foot that wore it is cold and still.
An aged woman upon her bed,
— Worn and wearied, and poor and old,
Longing to rest with the happy dead;
— And thus the story of life is told.
Where is the season of careless glee;
— Where is the moment that holds no pain?
Life has its crosses from infancy
— Down to the grave — A RE Its H OPES IN V AIN ?
Infant — wailing in nameless fear; An
— A shadow, perchance, in the quiet room,
Or the hum of an insect flying near,
— Or the screech owl's cry in the outer gloom.
A little child on the sun-checked floor;
— A broken toy, and a tear-stained face;
A young life clouded, a young heart sore,
— And the great clock, Time, ticks on apace.
A maiden weeping in bitter pain;
— Two white hands clasped on an aching brow;
A blighted faith, a fond hope slain,
— A shattered trust, and a broken vow.
A matron holding a baby's shoe;
— The hot tears gather and fall at will
On the knitted ribbon of white and blue,
— For the foot that wore it is cold and still.
An aged woman upon her bed,
— Worn and wearied, and poor and old,
Longing to rest with the happy dead;
— And thus the story of life is told.
Where is the season of careless glee;
— Where is the moment that holds no pain?
Life has its crosses from infancy
— Down to the grave — A RE Its H OPES IN V AIN ?
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