With her mother’s pretty air of pride,—
“Our dear mother has been dead a year!”
Ah! the lady’s tears might well fall fast,
As she kiss’d them, and then turned away.
She might strive to smile or to forget,
But I think some shadow of regret
Must have risen to blight her wedding-day.
She had some strange touch of self-reproach;
For she used to linger day by day
By the nursery door or garden gate