A cloud of more than pensiveness to rise
In the faint smiles that o’er her features gleam’d,
And the soft darkness of her serious eyes,
Misty with tender gloom, I call’d it naught
But the fond exile’s pang, a lingering thought
Of her own vale, with all its melodies
And living light of streams. Her soul would rest
Beneath your shades, I said, bowers of the gorgeous West!
XXXV.
Oh, could we live in visions! could we hold