The tables and the books, The little ones, too young The body of the home Stands still upon the street; But yet how changed within,— Its heart has ceased to beat! The mother was the heart,- Now that she smiles no more, The lonely husband broods The kindness on her lips, And then he looks before, And shrinks to meet the days, When, sitting all alone, He'll miss her quiet ways. His heart is sore to think That time may e'en erase From her own children's hearts For now their wondering looks And why the others weep. |