A Mother's Grave.

A poem by George W. Doneghy


The years have passed in ceaseless round
Since first they laid her here to rest
In dreamless sleep beneath the silent mound,
With folded hands upon her gentle breast.


The ivy twines about the crumbling stone,
And Springtime's scented blossoms fling
Their incense o'er the peaceful home
That knows no more of suffering.


Full many a Summer's sun has shed
Its brightest smile upon the hallowed spot,
And sobered Autumn and wild Winter spread
Their garments here--she heeds them not!


The feathered wildlings of the wood and field
Their untaught melody around it make,
But she who sleeps with eyes so softly sealed
Their gladsome songs can never more awake.


O restful sleep beneath the crumbling mold
To dream no more of hopes unrealized!
O Grave! What treasures do thy confines hold
By us so dearly loved and fondly prized!

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