Through weary strainings:—all had been for him!
Those two had loved! And there he lay, the dead,
In his youth’s flower—and she, the living, stood
With her gray hair, whence hue and gloss had fled—
And wasted form, and cheek, whose flushing blood
Had long since ebb’d—a meeting sad and strange!
—Oh! are not meetings in this world of change
Sadder than partings oft! She stood there, still,
And mute, and gazing—all her soul to fill
With the loved face once more—the young, fair face,