Upon that scarf, upon that glove
Her tears have left their stain;
But they will wear a deeper dye,
Ere brought to her again.
Ah! absence is not darkness all—
It hath its lighter hour,
When youth is fresh upon the soul,
And fancy tries its power!
That maiden with her wandering eye,
The sweet flush on her brow,
One image present on her mind—
Is she not happy now?
Yes; haunted by those gentle dreams
Which early life but knows:
The first warmth over morning's sky—
The first dew on the rose;
Ere colder, darker feelings rise
Within the mind's pure spring;
When hope soars lark-like through the air,
With sunshine on its wing.
An innocent and happy love
Is in that youthful face;
God grant that never coming years
May leave a sadder trace!
Life's book has one or two fair leaves;
Ah, such should be for thine!
That young face is too kind, too good
To bear a harsher line.
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