Classic Poem

Oh ! cold and drear my heart has grown
Since that sweet soul of thine is flown:
Like the warm ivy to the tree,
Wast thou, my darling child, to me.

And close as those green tendrils twine,
Thy gentle spirit clung to mine;
Dismantled now and lone it grows,
And bare to every wind that blows.

To the cold world I turned, to rest
On its false lap my bleeding breast,
But eyes that weep, and hearts that care
For others' woes, I found not there.

I turned to home, but every spot
Tells me, sweet child, that thou art not;
And she, my soother once, and thine,
Her tear-wet cheek is pale as mine.

I turned to Heaven my anguished look,
Remembered last, though first forsook;
And angels whisper in my ear,
“Thy child, thy Saviour, all are here.”