Oh weary hearts! Poor mothers that look back! So outcasts from the vale where they were born Turn on their road and, with a joy forlorn, See the far roofs below their arid track: So in chill buffets while the sea grows black And windy skies, once blue, are tost and torn, We are not yet forgetful of the morn, And praise anew the sunshine that we lack. Oh, sadder than pale sufferers by a tomb That say "My dead is happier, and is more" Are they who dare no "is" but tell what's o'er-- Thus the frank childhood, those the lovable ways-- Stirring the ashes of remembered days For yet some sparks to warm the livelong gloom. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DELUSION by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SHALL I SAY by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON ADELAIDE CRAPSEY by CARL SANDBURG HE GOADS HIMSELF by LOUIS UNTERMEYER NURSE'S SONG, FR. SONGS OF INNOCENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE THEOLOGY by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE SANDPIPER by CELIA LEIGHTON THAXTER |