From the golden quiver
The arrows are gone,
The wind from Death's river
Sounds in it alone!

I sit alone and think
In the silent room.
I look up, and I shrink
From the glimmering gloom.
O, that the little one
Were here with her shout!--
O, that my sister's arm
My neck were roundabout!

I cannot read a book,
My eyes are dim and weak;
To every chair I look--
There is not one to speak!
Could I but sit once more
Upon that well-known chair,
By my mother, as of yore,
Her hand upon my hair!

My father's eyes seeking,
In trembling hope to trace
If the south wind had been breaking
The shadows from my face;--
How sweet to die away
Beside our mother's hearth,
Amid the balmy light