A Ballad.

Категория: Поэзия

I cannot rest o' the night, Mother,
For my heart is cold and wan:
I fear the return o' light, Mother,
Since my own true love is gone.
O winsome aye was his face, Mother,
And tender his bright blue eye;
But his beauty and manly grace, Mother,
Beneath the dark earth do lie.


They tell me that I am young, Mother,
That joy will return once more;
But sorrow my heart has wrung, Mother,
And I feel the wound full sore.
The tree at the root frost-bitten
Will flourish never again,
And the woe that my life hath smitten
Hath frozen each inmost vein.


Whene'er the moon's shining clear, Mother,
I think o' my lover that's gone;
Heaven seem'd to draw very near, Mother,
As above us in glory it shone.
Ah! whither hath fled all my gladness?
Ah! would from life I could fly!
That laying me down in my sadness
I might kiss thee, my Mother, and die!

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