O why should a wide world have more than this?
When after all has been done and been said,
'Tis a single grief or a single bliss
That rekindles a life or strikes it dead.
Clasp'd in her arms, with her tears on my cheek,
Her kind husband warmly grasping my hand,
In statue-like calm, I move not nor speak—
A silent machine for one purpose plann'd.
'O white little face,' she tremblingly cries,
'It cannot be yours, that white little face;