NEWS FOR HER MOTHER

One mile more is

Where your door is

Mother mine! -

Harvest's coming,

Mills are strumming,

Apples fine,

And the cider made to-year will be as wine.

Yet, not viewing

What's a-doing

Here around

Is it thrills me,

And so fills me

That I bound

Like a ball or leaf or lamb along the ground.

Tremble not now

At your lot now,

Silly soul!

Hosts have sped them

Quick to wed them,

Great and small,

Since the first two sighing half-hearts made a whole.

Yet I wonder,

Will it sunder

Her from me?

Will she guess that

I said “Yes,” — that

His I'd be,

Ere I thought she might not see him as I see!

Old brown gable,

Granary, stable,

Here you are!

O my mother,

Can another

Ever bar

Mine from thy heart, make thy nearness seem afar?