A poem by Nora Pembroke


From morn to eve, from evening unto morning,
I mourn and cannot rest;
So mourns the mother bird when home returning
She finds an empty nest.

I mourn the little children of my dwelling,
That are forever gone,
Sorrows that mothers feel my heart is swelling,
And so I make my moan.

One little blossom on my bosom faded,
And passed from me away,
But near my door the drooping willows shaded
My little boys at play

My boys that came with flying feet to meet me,
And questions wondrous wise,
And bits of news which they had brought to greet me,
And see my glad surprise

Bitter for sweet no human hand can alter
Nor bid one sorrow pass,
With sudden stroke our darling little Walter
Was laid beneath the grass

Ah then it was to me an added sorrow,
To hear his brother moan,
Where's little Walter, will he come to morrow
I cannot play alone?

The summons for the child had come already
Which said I must resign
The best beloved, the precious little Freddie,
To other arms than mine

How still and lone are the familiar places
Where little pattering feet
Made music for me, and I saw bright faces
Dimple with laughter sweet

My arms are empty that woold fain be folding
My lost ones to my breast,
But well I know, the Father's face beholding,
They are forever blest.

From Christ's dear words my bleeding heart would gather
At length submissive grace,--
He says that in the kingdom of His Father,
They still behold His face.

In the bright garden of the Lord they're staying,
Amid the angels fair;
And heavenly whispers to my heart are saying--
Look up, your treasure's there.

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