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112 ANNA MARIA WELLS. Loved ones! my children! Ah, they cannot hear My voice that calls to them! An answer shrill, A shrill, unconscious answer, rises near, Repeating, still repeating Whippoorwill! Another name my lips would breathe;— but then Such tender memories all my bosom fill, Back to my sorrowing breast it stinks again! Hush, or thou'lt break my heart, sad Whippoorwill HOPE. THERE sits a woman on the brow Of yonder rocky height; There, gazing o'er the waves below, She sits from morn till night. She heeds not how the mad waves leap Along the rugged shore; She looks for one upon the deep, She never may see more. As morning twilight faintly gleams, Her shadowy form I trace; Wrapt in the silvery mist, she seems The Genius of the place! Far other once was Rosalie; Her smile was glad, her voice, Like music o'er a summer sea, Said to the heart,—"rejoice!" O'er her pure thoughts did sorrow fling Perchance a shade, 't would pass, Lightly as glides the breath of Spring Along the bending grass.
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Reopened for Editing 2023-06-26 16:55:43