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For the Southern Literary
Mary, amid the cares — the woes
Crowding around my earthly path,
(Sad path, alas! where grows
Not ev'n one lonely rose,)
My soul at least a solace hath
In dreams of thee, and therein knows
An Eden of sweet repose.
And thus thy memory is to me
Like some enchanted far-off isle,
In some tumultuous sea —
Some lake beset as lake can be
With storms — but where, meanwhile,
Serenest skies continually
Just o'er that one bright island smile.
E. A. P.