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...SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR MEDITATIONS OF A HINDU [OR, HINDOO] PRINCE [AND SKEPTIC] by ALFRED COMYNS LYALL PSALM 19. [THE HEAVENS ABOVE AND THE LAW WITHIN] by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE PAIN IN PLEASURE by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING ASOLANDO: THE BEAN-FEAST by ROBERT BROWNING PACCHIAROTTO AND HOW HE WORKED IN DISTEMPER by ROBERT BROWNING |