But O, he brought no joy,—my child
Brought mourning and no joy.
“His little grave I can not see,
Though weary months have fled
Since pitying lips bent over me,
And whispered, ‘He is dead.’—Ah, me!
’Tis dreadful to be dead!
“I do not mean for one like me,
So weary, worn, and weak,—
Death’s shadowy paleness seems to be