“Though there should be twenty-four
Never one like my true love!”
SONG FROM AN OPERA
Hard bloweth the wind, and the trees are bending,
I weep, for my heart aches so, with a pain unending.
My years pass in my woe, and so shall ever—
Alone I mourn, my folk must see me never.
For when none see the tears, and no one chideth,
Peace in my heart a moment then abideth.
Else, those around me say with laughter scornful,