Page:Poems (IA poemstennalfr00tennrich).pdf/171

 'Tis strange that those we lean on most, ⁠Those in whose laps our limbs are nurst, Fall into shadow, soonest lost: ⁠Those we love first are taken first.

God gives us love. Something to love ⁠He lends us; but, when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve ⁠Falls off, and love is left alone.

This is the curse of time. Alas! ⁠In grief I am not all unlearned: Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass; ⁠One went, who never hath returned.

He will not smile—not speak to me ⁠Once more. Two years his chair is seen Empty before us. That was he ⁠Without whose life I had not been.