Achsa White Sprague

Nov. 17, 1827 - Jul. 6, 1862


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.


The Poet And Other Poems.
Copyright 1864
Boston: William White And Co.,
158 Washington Street.