And in her liquid glance there seems awhile
To dwell some thought whose soul is with the past;
Yet soon it flies—a cloud that leaves no trace,
On the sky’s azure, of its dwelling-place.
Perchance, at times, within her heart may rise
Remembrance of some early love or woe,
Faded, yet scarce forgotten—in her eyes
Wakening the half-formed tear that may not flow,
Yet radiant seems her lot as aught on earth,
Where still some pining thought comes darkly o’er our mirth.