When the angel of love,
To its mansion above,
Had fluttered away like a wounded dove.
How softly I turned the key in my heart;
One moment I faltered—the door swung apart—
A faint, sweet essence, like heliotrope bloom,
Was sick’ning my senses; I moved through the room
With a staggering tread,
With a brain reeling head,
And swooned there—a murd’rer—my flower was—dead.