ZWU_SCA022_B07F02_07221859_01311860_006.jpg
- transcription
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first, then the angels, (then facing me)
which comes next Mama, the preachers
or the people, I forget. So we had a
thorough discussion of the subject.
Monday July .
A letter from Mother & Han today,
Mrs Morgan & Tom at Spa. Rainy
day again & so cold that we are obliged
to have fire.
[Transcriber's note: The remainder of the page consists of two columns, the right column containing the handwritten text transcribed below and the left a pasted-in (?) printed clipping of a poem from a newspaper or other publication, transcribed subsequently.]
Interlaken Friday August
A few days before us left then
we were surprised & delighted
by a visit from Tom - he
came one afternoon & left
the next, making the children
happy by giving each a toy
& devoting most of his time
to entertaining them. We
came here last Monday
in the noon boat - I was
so glad to get away, for
many reasons worth remem
bering but not writing. We
made a trip to L.
[Transcriber's note: Printed poem]
Only a Picture.
Only a picture-and is that all?
Only a picture upon the wall;
The smile so beaming, the cheek so bright,
The eye so dancing with sunny light!
I almost fancy my baby boy
Is springing to me in his pride and joy.
But 'tis only a picture upon the wall,
A silent picture, and that is all!
Only a lock of silken hair
Lying alone in its casket there!
Where is the head that in sportive glee,
Was wont to toss so careless and free?
The baby head that upon my breast
So lovingly nestled each night to rest?
Only a lock of its silken hair
Is lying alone in its casket there.
Only a shoe that is soiled and torn,
But where is the foot that shoe has worn?
The darling foot so dimpled and small,
That made music so merry in chamber and hall.
O, to catch of that little step one sound,
How wildly now would my pulses bound!
But there's only a shoe that is soiled and torn-
The foot comes no more that that shoe has worn.
Only these relics-and nothing more?
Can naught to our arms the lost restore?
Must we hopeless yearn as the years go by
For the bounding step and the beaming eye,
And of all that beauty and light and grace
So fondly cherished retain no trace,
Save these silent relics?---"O, nevermore
Will the grave to our arms the lost restore."
O rove [sic] for love when from its store
It points to these tokens and nothing more!
When the vacant hall and the silent stair
But echo the groans of its wild despair;
And from all the voices in earth and sky,
Comes back no word to its wailing cry,
Save the mournful echo---"O, nevermore
Will the grave to thy arms the lost restore."
O joy for love when it yearns no more
For that which the grave cannot restore!
When it upward stretches its drooping wings,
And in darkness and sorrow still sweetly sings
Of the brightness and bliss of that better home,
Where the lost are found and no partings come;
O joy for love, when its priceless store
There safe is garnered forevermore!
Part of Jane Bigelow Diary, 1859-1860