·
3 мин
Слушать

Deserted

No, mother,

I am not sad:     Why think me sad?

I was always still,     You remember, even when my heart was most glad     And you used to let me dream at my will;     And now I like better to watch the sea     And the calm sad sky than to laugh with the rest.     You know they are full of chatter and glee,        And I like the quietness best.        Nay, mother, you look so grave.   I know what you're thinking and will not say;   But you need not fear;

I am growing brave   Now that the pain is passing away,   And I never weep for him now when alone,   For perhaps it was better — who can tell? —   That it ended so.

I shall soon be well      Now that the hardest is known.      I am so much stronger to-day  I can look at all past and think how it grew   And how by degrees it faded away,   That light of my life.

Ah! when I first knew   I had only been a plaything to him   Through all my loving, it seemed so strange.   If the high noontide at once grew night-dim      It would not be such a change.     I wonder I did not die.   Mother,

I'll own it you now I am strong,   I used to wake in the night and lie   Wishing and wishing it might not be long —   Oh! it was wicked, and you all so kind,   How could I wish to bring you a grief?   But too much unhappiness makes one blind      To all but one's own relief.      I am not so wicked now;   You need not fear.

I am hoping that still,   I am learning to lean on God, and I bow,   Yes I think I bow my heart to His will.   I found it a long hard struggle to make,   To clasp my sorrow and say "It is best,"   But, believe it, you need not fear for my sake;      Yes, mother,

I am at rest:     Yet, listen, if I should die soon —   And I know what they say, though you hide it from me —   Mother, you'll grant me my last-asked boon,   That you'll try not to think it his fault, and if he,   Mother, if he should seek you some day,   You will not make him a hard reply,   But tell him, before I passed away,      I sent him kind good-bye.      Mother, kiss me, do not cry.   I could not keep from speaking of this;   It is nothing to say "If I should die,"   It cannot bring death more near than it is;   And I am much stronger.

You shall not weep —   Who is it tells me that weeping is wrong?   But let me lean on your lap and sleep,      I lay waking last night too long.

0
0
87
Подарок

Augusta Davies Webster

Augusta Webster (30 January 1837 – 5 September 1894) was an English poet, dramatist, essayist, and translator. The daughter of Vice-admiral Geor…
Комментарии
Вам нужно войти , чтобы оставить комментарий
Сегодня читают
Ryfma
Ryfma - это социальная сеть для публикации книг, стихов и прозы, для общения писателей и читателей. Публикуй стихи и прозу бесплатно.