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The tables and the books,

The stairways and the hall, Seem as before: still hang

The pictures on the wall.

The little ones, too young

To know what it may mean, Their wondering questions ask,

With tears and smiles between.

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,

The mother and the wife : Her smile was all its light;

Her movement, all its life.

Now that she smiles no more,

And does not lift her head, The house may still remain,

But, oh, the home is dead!

The lonely husband broods

Upon the years gone by,– The kindness on her lips,

The love-light in her eye.

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

The memory of her face.

For now their wondering looks

Beseech the reason deep Why mother lies so still,

And why the others weep.

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