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Separation.
By W. M. MacKeracher
Parted cruelly from thee,
What, Oh! what is life to me?
'Tis the morn without the lark;
It is wine without its spark.
Christmas time without its glee;
Music without harmony.
New Year's eve devoid of mirth;
Winter night without the hearth.
'Tis a day without the light;
'Tis a moonless, starless night.
Thorn-bush, barren of its leaf;
Weeping, without its relief.
'Tis a fire, but unconsuming;
Poisonous plant, but never blooming.
Ship becalmed, without its peace;
Death, without its sweet release.
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