She moves about the house with meek content,
Her face is like a psalm from other years;
She only guesses half of what is meant,
But hideSher impotence, her natural tears.

Whenso we gather close for jest or tale
She shuns the circle, lest it fret our mood
To raise our voices till our joyance fail;
She sits apart in patient quietude.

And though we try to make her lot more bright,
To set her in our midst and show her love
(For she is lovesome), yet few glimpse aright
Her desolation and the cross thereof.

Dear God, may recompense be hers from Thee;
May melodies from days gone by come back
To fill her silence, and a symphony
Played soft, of angels, soothe her sorry lack,

That, while she sits and makes no least demur,
Left much to loneliness and forced apart,
She have companionship to comfort her,
And hear a constant singing in her heart.