172
A SHEAF GLEANED
Dost thou remember, loveliest,
The ties that bound thee fast,
The holiest ties—a mother's,
When my thirtieth year had past?
The tumult of that revel
Still rings within my heart;
A happy time—Life's autumn,
Ah! why should it depart?
Whilst thus I sigh, my Mary,
Thine eyes are bending down;
Afraid they seem to tell me
That our best of days have flown.
My lips in vain lament them,
But though the zest be o'er,
To call them back is pleasure,
Those days that are no more.
