Was ever more celestial kiss?But once, did ever anywhereSo full a choir chant such an airAs feathered splendors bugled there?And was there ever blinder eyeOr deafer ear than mine?A crySo soft, and yet so brimming filledWith agony, my heart strings thrilledAn ineffectual reply,—Then gaunt against the southern skyThe silent handiwork of hate.Greet, Virgin Tree, your holy mate!
No sound then in the little roomWas filtered through my sieve of gloom,Except the steady fall of tears,The hot, insistent rain that searsThe burning ruts down which it goes,The futile flow, for all one knowsHow vain it is, that ever flows.I could not bear to look at herThere in the dark; I could not stirFrom where I sat, so weighted down.The king of grief, I held my crownSo dear, I wore my tattered gownWith such affection and such love
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