And cannot pass away. You stand
Your forehead to the window crest,
And stifle sobs that no command
Can keep from rising in your breast.
Dear, balm is not for griefs like ours,
Nor resurrection for dead hope:
In vain we cover wounds with flowers,
That grow upon life's western slope.
Their leaves tho' bright, are hard, and dry,
They have no soft and healing dew;