Separation.

    Parted cruelly from thee,
What, Oh! what is life to me?

'Tis the morn without the lark;
It is wine without its spark.

Christmas time without its glee;
Music without harmony.

New Year's eve devoid of mirth;
Winter night without the hearth.

'Tis a day without the light;
'Tis a moonless, starless night.

Thorn-bush, barren of its leaf;
Weeping, without its relief.

'Tis a fire, but unconsuming;
Poisonous plant, but never blooming.

Ship becalmed, without its peace;
Death, without its sweet release.

W. M. MacKeracher

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