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Poem by Thomas Hood

Ballad (She's up and gone, the graceless girl)

She's up and gone, the graceless girl,
  And robb'd my failing years!
My blood before was thin and cold
  But now 'tis turn'd to tears;--
My shadow falls upon my grave,
  So near the brink I stand,
She might have stay'd a little yet,
  And led me by the hand!

Aye, call her on the barren moor,
  And call her on the hill:
'Tis nothing but the heron's cry,
  And plover's answer shrill;
My child is flown on wilder wings
  Than they have ever spread,
And I may even walk a waste
  That widen'd when she fled.

Full many a thankless child has been,
  But never one like mine;
Her meat was served on plates of gold,
  Her drink was rosy wine;
But now she'll share the robin's food,
  And sup the common rill,
Before her feet will turn again
  To meet her father's will!

Thomas Hood

Thomas Hood's other poems:
  1. Written in Keats' УEndymionФ
  2. The Two Peacocks of Bedfont
  3. Song (The stars are with the voyager)
  4. Ode on a Distant Prospect of Clapham Academy
  5. The Departure of Summer

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