The Mourner
By Achsa White Sprague
The birds are singing sweetly
Upon the maple bough;
The fragrant breath of summer
Is floating round me now.
The earth is decked with flowers,
The groves are green and bright;
These old familiar places
Are filled with joy and light.
But all to me is darkness,
To me is filled with gloom;
For the loved, the loved are sleeping,
Cold in the silent tomb.
The birds' glad song but mocks me;
I cannot bear the tone;
Amid this mirth and gladness
I feel alone, alone.
The world is dark and dreary,
To me its light is fled;
And every sight and sound to me
Speaks only of the dead.
An early poem, composed during sickness.
Source Book
The Poet And Other Poems.
by Achsa White Sprague
Copyright 1864
Published by Boston: William White And Co.,
158 Washington Street.
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