Why moves he not from hour to hour, nor heaves his gentle breast?
Why does the mother place her hand upon his marble cheek,
Then move her bloodless, quiv’ring lips, though none can hear her speak?
Why meets he not her ardent gaze with smiles of infant bliss?
And why, O, why returns he not that long impassion’d kiss!
Why sleeps the tender infant there, and not upon his bed?
Why does the mother sever, too, those ringlets from his head?
Why does she slowly curl them thus, around her fingers fair,
And on them gaze so mournfully—those locks of auburn hair?
Why does she press them to her lips, and press them to her breast?