[78]

THE LOST SUNBEAM.

THE LOST SUNBEAM.

Form of the sycamore,

Until it makes its nest

Into the silent grove,

[79]

Straightway appears to dart

HERITAGE.

HERITAGE.

(To my Mother.)

All that is fair, in your spirit, my Sweet,

Lies now at my feet.

From your zenith of thought they have fallen like rain,

In the midst of my pain!

Pure and unsullied, most holy and true;

Whose light is from you!

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