Broken Toys.

A woman sits on a chair next to a dresser. One of the dresser drawers is open. The woman rests her elbow on the open drawer and leans over to rest her face in her open hand. The room is messy. It is littered with various objects, including a basket of clothes, children’s toys, artwork, a hat, and a book. A portrait hangs above the dresser. 2/3-page illustration contained within a single-ruled border.

I have bow’d beneath the stroke, and the storm is passing o’er : I will walk, and will not murmur, though my lips may smile no more. The world is quite foresaken— My beautiful is taken To the dim eternal shore. I have learn’d to watch the little spot of earth that is my boy’s,— But scarcely yet I dare to touch his broken toys. ’Mid the shadows of the evening, in the blackness of the night, That struggle and that piteous look come back upon my sight ; Until I cry, “ Thank Heaven, Short was thy fearful levin,— Not longer was the fight.” And I recall the resting limbs, the peaceful, smiling face, Sunlit, as if of pain it ne’er had known a trace. I have gather’d up his few small books,—they stand beside my bed ; I have folded up for treasures the clothes from which he fled : The cambric shirt, with stain Of blood from the blue vein Of his arm when he was bled. I can bear these suffering tokens,—but not those of his joys ;— A mother’s heart is broken by these broken toys. How weak I am ! how changeful, how desplate, how lone ! Bear with my faithless grief, O Thou, to whom all grief is known ! I will think upon Thy story ; I will think upon his glory Who from my arms is flown ; And try to figure to myself the bliss that is my boy’s :— But my heart is well-nigh broken by these broken toys ! Berni .