WE have not grown old, and we have not

     Grown cross;

But our days have a chill, and our memories a loss;

The fireside looks lonely, the table looks bare,

Though all sit around with enough and to spare.

My father comes home at the fall of the night;

His step has grown weary, his hair has grown


He smiles on us yet, but his smile has no cheer,

It never was so when my mother was here.

Now no one looks out when we go to school,

Or warns us to keep from the ice on the pool;

And no one comes softly to see how we sleep,

When the night hours are dark, and the silence

     Is deep.

Together we go on long summer walk,

But nobody cheers it with stories and talk;

We gather the blossoms from bank-land and bough,

But nobody welcomes us home with them now.

We read her old Bible; we have not forgot

The hymns that she loved, and the prayers that

     She taught;

Our love is still kindly, our home is still dear,

But not what they were when my mother was