Sing Me The Old Songs, Mother.

A poem by Freeman Edwin Miller

Our souls are the deserts of sorrow,
Our hearts are the ashes of hope,
And madly from gladness we borrow
The brightness where sadness may grope;
My raptures in wretchedness vanish,
My bosom is weeping with wrongs;
Then sing me the old songs, mother,
Then sing me the dear old songs.

My joys are in memory lying,
Still ardently happy with youth,
When smiles in ambition were dying,
And life was the vision of youth;
My brow for your gentle caresses
And kisses of tenderness longs;
Then sing me the old songs, mother,
Then sing me the dear old songs.

Sweet murmurs in mystical measures
Come soothingly over my soul,
Where voices of babyish pleasures
And echoes of lullabies roll;
The struggles of all my endeavor
Are bound in the darkest of thongs;
Then sing me the old songs, mother,
Then sing me the dear old songs.

I fain would return in my dreaming
To years that proclaimed me a boy,
When gladness was happily beaming
And life was a musical toy;
My sorrow has never Nepenthe,
My woe in its bitterness throngs;
Then sing me the old songs, mother,
Then sing me the dear old songs.