Her head leant on her arm, the beech's trunk
Supporting her slight figure, and one hand
Prest to her heart, as if to still its throbs!—
You never might forget that face,—so young,
So fair, yet traced with such deep characters
Of inward wretchedness! The eyes were dim,
With tears on the dark lashes; still the lip
Could not quite lose its own accustomed smile,
Even by that pale cheek it kept its arch
And tender playfulness: you looked and said,
What can have shadowed such a sunny brow?
There is so much of natural happiness
In that bright countenance, it seems but formed
For Spring's light sunbeams, or yet lighter dews.
You turned away—then came—and looked again,
Watching the pale and silent loveliness,
Till even sleep was haunted by that image.
There was a severed chain upon the ground—
Ah! love is even more fragile than its gifts!
A tress of raven hair:—oh, only those
Whose souls have felt this one idolatry,
Can tell how precious is the slightest thing
Affection gives and hallows! A dead flower
Will long be kept, remembrancer of looks
That made each leaf a treasure. And the tree
Had two slight words graven upon its stem—
The broken heart's last record of its faith—
"Adieu, Henri!"------
