She pulls the silver mask from many a flower,
And reads its tender secrets all to me.
She guides my pen along uncertain heights,
Where unattended I could never go;
The candle of success she often lights
When the flame flickers and the wick burns low.
She leads me to the grave and says, “Not here,
But there,” and points me to the heavenly gate;
And when upon my cheek there falls a tear
(For sometimes yet my heart grows desolate),