To Albert.

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THOU art going from us, Albert,
Going far away from me,
Where I can not hear thy prattle,
And thy face I can not see.
Back into the Southern country,
Thou art going—there to roam,
Where my heart began its singing—
In the old Kentucky home.
Lonely all the days will linger,
When I miss your little face;
Shadows gray, from out the hours,
All the sunbeams soon will chase.
Dim will seem the sunny window,
Where the pansy blossom grows,
And no restless little fingers
Will disturb the opening rose.
Soon the playthings will be missing,
Soon they gathered up must be—
Thou art going from us, Albert,
Going far away from me.
Soon the little boy that vexed me,
When I tried to read and write,
Will be gone. No one will listen
When I sing my songs at night.
Soon the halls will lose their echo,
And the yard grow silent, too,
And the pretty face will vanish,
With those wondrous eyes of blue.
So good-bye, my little darling;
All these tears have been for thee—
Thou art going from us, Albert,
Going far away from me.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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