II.
I stood on the brink in manhood,
And it came to my weary heart,—
In my breast so dull and heavy,
After the years of smart,—
That every hollowest bubble
Which over my life had passed
Still into its deeper current
Some sky-sweet gleam had cast;
That, however I mocked it gayly,
And guessed at its hollowness,
Still shone, with each bursting bubble,
One star in my soul the less.