A dry parch'd lip and a thundery brow,
And a sharp bright eye that has lost its grace.
So a lov'd little hand comes smoothing down—
Wandering kisses can anger eclipse;
The beautiful forehead has ceased to frown,
And sweet is the kiss I find on my lips.
'Ah, dearest,' I whisper, 'mourn not for this,
On a summer day with a heap of flowers;
This cannot be sorrow, or if it is,
It is a sorrow that cannot be ours.'