And yet his heart is burning ’neath a cloud
Of dread and misery. The young wife leans
By the old elm-tree, ’mid the passing scenes
Her heart is busy, for beside her stands
A lovely child, with snowy, dimpled hands
Clasping her mother’s, while within the shade
Her baby brother on the greensward played.
The little maiden mused, a choking swell
Filled her young bosom, and the large tears fell
All silently, then her slow-lifting eyes