As her little blue-eyed May’s that night,
When she stood by her dead mother’s side.
No—I will not say he was unkind;
But she had been used to love and praise.
He was somewhat grave: perhaps, in truth,
Could not weave her joyous, smiling youth
Into all his stern and serious ways.
She, who should have reigned a blooming flower,
First in pride and honor as in grace—
She, whose will had once ruled all around,