I know no loneliness of heart,—no shadowy ideal, 
No sighing for the unattained,<—the beautiful unreal; 
My happiness is ever near in treasures few and small; 
My lowly hopes are realized in young fruition all. 
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And mine the spirit still at home in sorrow and in joy, 
That loseth not its sweet content at thought of earth’s annoy; 
The violet, that bides the storm, is freshened in its blue, 
And sorrow beats upon the heart to strengthen and renew. 
I know not why I do not love what others love on earth, 
Nor why what others seem to prize to me is nothing worth; 
Nor why I feel so trustful of every one I see, 
Until my heart belongs to them more than it does to me. 
The flower upon our mantle-shelf—my brother’s flute at night, 
The way-worn letter from afar that bringeth pure delight, 
The voices of my darling ones that own no parlor tone, 
With these to sun my little world, I could not feel alone. 
I have an earthly mother, and my home is in her heart, 
And ever more I nestle there, though we are far apart; 
And earthly sisters too I have, and brothers for my love, 
That cluster round me like the stars in the bright heaven above. 
In fancy only I can live and love beside them now, 
In fancy only I can feel their kisses on my brow: 
I cannot see the hands I pressed,—the ringlets I have curled; 
My head that used to lean on them is rested on the world. 
I know that heaven is near to earth where’er my lot may fall; 
I know that they will pray for me—the frailest of them all; 
And I, if I were growing gray, should sleep the sleep of youth, 
For my soul is rocked to slumber on the bosom of their truth. 
There is a worldly wisdom that preacheth to despise 
The chime of youthful feeling, that impulsively replies 
To the whisper of affection, wherever it may spring, 
And proffer to the gazing world its fragrant blossoming. 
