The passion-flowers o'er her bright head drooped,
The roses twined their faint rich blooms above her,
Great crimson fuchsia bells with myrtle grouped,
White lilies watched the maiden and her lover;
The warm air round them fragrant with the breath,
Of violets nestling in their mossy wreath.
The fountain's silvery tinkle, softly chiming,
Blent with sweet laughter and with low replies,
As past the arch, the music's pulses timing,
Flashed flying feet, flushed cheeks, and sparkling eyes;
And tinted lamps and mellow meonlight strove
To light the happy dream of youth and love.
A little year — a pale girl stood alone,
Where withered tendrils choked a fountain's lip,
And 'mid the ivies, rank and overgrown,
The melting snow, in slow and sullen drip,
Plashed, where 'mid shattered glass and broad arch barred,
A straggling rose-tree kept its silent guard.
"Gone, like the glory of my morn," she said,
"Like faith, and hope, and joy of summer hours;"
And from the untrimmed branches overhead,
She plucked the frailest of the frail pink flowers,
Meet emblem of the love that had its day,
And passed, with spring and beauty, quite away.
