31.12.2010, 18:35
LITTLE NORA,
Or the Portrait
I ask'd of little Nora, but he gave
A piteous sigh—his answer did not come ;
My friend stood gazing on his daughter's tomb,
Till, with a sudden shame, I saw it too ;
At last he said : ' She died three moons ago :'
So long entomb'd had little Nora been,
So long I knew not of her father's woe !
Then came her portrait forth, which I had seen,
And he had shown with pride, when last we met ;
The same bright smile—the rose-o'erladen arms,
And all her pretty sum of infant-charms ;
But lo ! a fair memorial tress was set,
Facing the porcelain picture, where his child
Still nursed her pile of summer-wreaths and smiled.
Or the Portrait
I ask'd of little Nora, but he gave
A piteous sigh—his answer did not come ;
My friend stood gazing on his daughter's tomb,
Till, with a sudden shame, I saw it too ;
At last he said : ' She died three moons ago :'
So long entomb'd had little Nora been,
So long I knew not of her father's woe !
Then came her portrait forth, which I had seen,
And he had shown with pride, when last we met ;
The same bright smile—the rose-o'erladen arms,
And all her pretty sum of infant-charms ;
But lo ! a fair memorial tress was set,
Facing the porcelain picture, where his child
Still nursed her pile of summer-wreaths and smiled.