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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=475879" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Untitled 1</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=475879" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I gladly would sing in a joyous strain, <br>But my heart of its joy is bereft; <br>For my young life there is nought but grief and pain, <br>And a haunting memory left. <br>Look at the stars how they gleam from the skies <br>On me with a frosty stare; <br>Can it be that this world hath no pitying eyes <br>For the houseless child of care? <br>Ye that look on me have homes tonight, <br>And loving ones wait you there; <br>And the cheerful fire is burning bright, <br>And young faces are beaming fair. <br>Though a thousand homes are around I know <br>'Mong them all there is no home for me: <br>For I must sleep in the cold white snow, <br>And the skies must my shelter be. <br>My life is still in its summer years, <br>But its flowers can bloom no more; <br>I weep - and mine are the bitter tears <br>That are wept for the joys of yore. <br>Then I cannot be glad, for my heart will cling <br>To the grief that is all its own: <br>So wonder not that I only sing <br>A song with a mournful tone.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Owen+Suffolk">Owen Suffolk</a></strong></div>

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