Saying she would strive, and strive alone,
Till she gained each little wayward heart.
And she strove indeed, and seem’d to be
Always waiting for their love, in vain;
Yet when May had most their mother’s look,
Then the lady’s calm, cold accents shook
With some memory of reproachful pain.
Little May would never call her mother:
So one day, the lady bending low,
Kiss’d her golden curls, and softly said,