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bow’d beneath the stroke, and the storm is passing o’er: I will walk, and will not murmur, though my lips may smile no more. The world is quite forsaken— My beautiful is taken To the dim eternal shore. I have learn’d to watch the little spot of earth that is my boy’s,— But scarcely yet I dare to touch his broken toys.

’Mid the shadows of the evening, in the blackness of the night, That struggle and that piteous look come back upon my sight; Until I cry, “Thank Heaven, Short was thy fearful levin,— Not longer was the fight.” And I recall the resting limbs, the peaceful, smiling face, Sunlit, as if of pain it ne’er had known a trace.

I have gather’d up his few small books,—they stand beside my bed; I have folded up for treasures the clothes from which he fled: The cambric shirt, with stain Of blood from the blue vein Of his arm when he was bled. I can bear these suffering tokens,—but not those of his joys;— A mother’s heart is broken by these broken toys.

How weak I am! how changeful, how desolate, how lone! Bear with my faithless grief, O Thou, to whom all grief is known! I will think upon Thy story; I will think upon his glory Who from my arms is flown; And try to figure to myself the bliss that is my boy’s:— But my heart is well-nigh broken by these broken toys!