THE DESERTED.
71
Thou gav'st me in the glad, bright Summer-time,
Telling me 'twas the emblem of a hope
That soon would burst to glorious life within
Our spirits' garden. The poor fragile bud
Is now all pale and withered, and the hope
Is faded in my lonely breast, and cast
For ever forth from thine.
Telling me 'twas the emblem of a hope
That soon would burst to glorious life within
Our spirits' garden. The poor fragile bud
Is now all pale and withered, and the hope
Is faded in my lonely breast, and cast
For ever forth from thine.
They tell me, too,
My brow and cheek are very pale—Alas!
There is no more a spirit-fire within
To light it with the olden glow. Life's dreams
And visions all have died within my soul,
And I am sad, and lone, and desolate;
And yet at times, when I behold thee near,
A something like the dear old feeling stirs
Within my breast, and wakens from the tomb
Of withered memories one pale, pale rose,
To bloom a moment there, and cast around
Its sweet and gentle fragrance, but anon
It vanishes away, as if it were
My brow and cheek are very pale—Alas!
There is no more a spirit-fire within
To light it with the olden glow. Life's dreams
And visions all have died within my soul,
And I am sad, and lone, and desolate;
And yet at times, when I behold thee near,
A something like the dear old feeling stirs
Within my breast, and wakens from the tomb
Of withered memories one pale, pale rose,
To bloom a moment there, and cast around
Its sweet and gentle fragrance, but anon
It vanishes away, as if it were
