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Owen Suffolk

(Born: 1829 / Australia)

Untitled 1


I gladly would sing in a joyous strain,
But my heart of its joy is bereft;
For my young life there is nought but grief and pain,
And a haunting memory left.
Look at the stars how they gleam from the skies
On me with a frosty stare;
Can it be that this world hath no pitying eyes
For the houseless child of care?
Ye that look on me have homes tonight,
And loving ones wait you there;
And the cheerful fire is burning bright,
And young faces are beaming fair.
Though a thousand homes are around I know
'Mong them all there is no home for me:
For I must sleep in the cold white snow,
And the skies must my shelter be.
My life is still in its summer years,
But its flowers can bloom no more;
I weep - and mine are the bitter tears
That are wept for the joys of yore.
Then I cannot be glad, for my heart will cling
To the grief that is all its own:
So wonder not that I only sing
A song with a mournful tone.

Submitted: Thursday, January 01, 2004

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Read poems about / on: grief, memory, snow, summer, child, song, sleep, fire, joy, home, pain, heart, life, world, star, sky, flower, children

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  • Rookie Stephen Arnold (7/22/2014 6:21:00 AM)

    Actually a song, written in a garret, with the aim of raising money to ward off starvation on the streets. cite: chapter 2 of his autobiography. (Report) Reply

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