Why does the mother near them stand, with eyes upon them bent?
Why do they all keep silence there, as though they feared t’ intrude?
Why does the mother’s look express such heartfelt gratitude?
Who are those lovely silent ones—that group of ladies fair?
Why do they ply the needle thus—what are they doing there?
O, list to me, and I will tell—that beauteous boy is dead;
The father, in another room, lies on his dying bed;
And she who glides from place to place, and wears so sad a smile—
That wife and mother—who can tell what thoughts her bosom fill?
For many sad mysterious things ye’ve asked the reason why;