Glances tow’rd her so full of soul
As shed on each a nameless grace,
Love’s light reflected on each face,—
The child in her sweet hour of prime,
The father, yet untouched by time?
Torn from its root, for weal or woe,
The blossom lives. The tree lies low.
It fell before a leaf was sere,
Nor lived to feel the waning year.