Normale Version: Her Visits to her Mother’s Grave
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Her Visits to her Mother’s Grave

Ofttimes I mark thee, while the village tower
Takes the first glow of the new-risen morn,
Bending among the tombs like one forlorn;
There is thy mother’s grave; there, sun or shower,

Art thou, and there is cherished every flower
She loved the best; and ‘t is thy secret trust
That in the blossoms springing from her dust
Lives something of her to this very hour.

There, on the Sabbath days, mayst thou be seen
The first of all, the last to linger there;
Sweet memories of her virtues come between

Thy whispered words, and mingle with thy prayer;
And aged woman, doomed to endless toil,
Stay by the porch, and weep with thee, or smile.