Beyond, the hills, in robe of green,
Mount upward to the calm blue sky,
While at their feet the silver sheen
Of a broad river meets the eye.
Here in this cot, a space below,
A widow dwells in silent grief,
Earth has no balm to sooth her wo,
No magic song, no healing leaf.
Long weary years have slowly fled
Since death first filled her home with gloom.