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“Her coming made him better, and they stayed “Together at my father's - for I played “As I remember with the lady's shawl “I might be six years old — but after all “She left him”...“Why, her heart must have been
tough: 6 How did it end?” “And was not this enough? “They met — they parted” — “Child, is there no
more?” “Something within that interval which bore “ The stamp of why they parted, how they met: “Yet if thine agèd eyes disdain to wet “ Those wrinkled cheeks with youth's remembered tears, “Ask me no more, but let the silent years • Be closed and cered over their memory
As yon mute marble where their corpses lie."
ON A FADED VIOLET.
THE odour from the flower is gone,
Which like thy kisses breathed on me; The colour from the flower is flown,
Which glowed of thee, and only thee!
A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form,
It lies on my abandoned breast, And mocks the heart which yet is warm
With cold and silent rest.
I weep - my tears revive it not !
I sigh — it breathes no more on me; Its mute and uncomplaining lot
Is such as mine should be.
WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES.
The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon's transparent might,
The breath of the moist earth is light,
Like many a voice of one delight,
I see the Deep's untrampled floor
With green and purple seaweed strown; I see the waves upon the shore,
Like light dissolved in star showers, thrown:
I sit upon the sands alone,
Is flashing round me, and a tone
Alas ! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor peace within nor calm around, Nor that content surpassing wealth
The sage in meditation found,
And walked with inward glory crowned – Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.
Others I see whom these surround Smiling they live and call life pleasure ; To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.
Yet now despair itself is mild,
Even as the winds and waters are ; I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne and yet must bear,
And I might feel in the warm air
Some might lament that I were cold,
As I, when this sweet day is gone, Which
my lost heart, too soon grown old, Insults with this untimely moan;
They might lament — for I am one Whom men love not, - and yet regret,
Unlike this day, which, when the sun Shall on its stainless glory set, Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.
Wilt thou forget the happy hours
And leaves, the hopes that yet remain.