Page:Cheskian Anthology.pdf/132

 my feet my slippers seem,

Made of beauty lead—

Mother, mother, mother mine!

I would hide my head.

and radiant oak-tree, why,

Young and verdant oak?

Why dost turn on me—on me

Such an angry look?

! no angry look on thee

Turn l—yet I may

Mourn thou art so fickle—maid!

So the people say."

star! in heaven's blue deep,

Tell a weeper, dost thou weep?

Dost thou weep o'er woes and fears—

Golden sparks should be thy tears,

If alive to sympathy.