I hear her rocking the baby,
  Slower and slower now,
And I know she is leaving her good-night kiss
  On its eyes, and cheek, and brow
From her rocking, rocking, rocking,
  I wonder would she start,
Could she know, through the wall between us,
  She is rocking on a heart. 
While my empty arms are aching
  For a form they may not press
And my emptier heart is breaking
  In its desolate loneliness
I list to the rocking, rocking,
  In the room just next to mine,
And breathe a prayer in silence,
  At a mother’s broken shrine,
For the woman who rocks her baby
  In the room just next to mine.

“I don’t care.”

“I don’t care,” we hear it oft
  And oft, the words are seeming fair;
But many a heartache lies beneath
  A careless “I don’t care!”

In every age, from every tongue,
  The vain assertions fell;
But oh, trust not the cheating words,
  For never truth they tell! 
Hearts may grow sick with hope deferred,
  Be crushed with black despair,
But lips, too proud to own defeat,
  Will whisper, “I don’t care!”

A thoughtless friend flings out in jest—­
  As jesters always do—­
A deadly shaft you wince beneath,
  You know the story’s true;
But while the dart has pierced your heart,
  And poisoned, rankles there,
You look amused, and answer with
  A smiling, “I don’t care!”

When Fortune’s favors are withdrawn,
  And friends like shadows fled,
When all your fondest dreams are gone,
  Your dearest hopes are dead,
You curse the fickle goddess, then,
  Who wrought you such despair,
Yet hide chagrin beneath a frown,
  And mutter, “I don’t care!”

The veteran, battle-scarred, who fills
  A nation’s honored place,
Feels keener than his saber’s point,
  Unmerited disgrace. 
With indignation all aflame
  He meets some rival’s stare;
But for all answer gives the worlds
  A freezing “I don’t care!”

A woman’s heart is trifled with,
  Her hopes are ground to dust,
Her proud soul humbled with neglect,
  Betrayed her sacred trust,
Yet, while to desperation stung,
  With death and ruin there,
She’ll crush the tears and cheat you with
  A laughing “I don’t care?”

“I don’t care!” ’tis but a breath,
  The words are seeming fair,
But many a heartache lies beneath
  A careless “I don’t care!”

A STAINED LILY.

Some lilies grew by a brook-side,
  Tall and white, and cold,
And lifted up to the sunshine
  Their great red hearts of gold.

And near to their bed grew mosses,
  rank vines, and flowers small,
And loathsome weeds, and thistles,
  And the sunlight warmed them all.

Anon, the proud white lilies
  Were gathered one by one,
Each to crown a festal
  Rarest under the sun.