Page:Poems Osgood.djvu/160

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150
the exile's lament.

In at my lattice laughs the sun,
And plays about my feet;
I'd welcome it if you were here
Its summer warmth to greet!

The sky ne'er seems so blue, mother,—
So balmy soft the air!
And oh! the flowers are not so pure
As those I used to wear!

My baby Ellen gaily plays,
But none are here to note,
With partial praise, her winning ways,
Or catch the gems that float—

The gems of thought that sparkle o'er
Her mind's untroubled sea;
Then vanish in its depths before
We well know what they be!

How oft, when lovelier than their wont
Her cheeks' pure roses glow,
And fairer 'neath the sunlit hair
Her veinèd temples show,