Like the scent of a flower in its folded bell,
When eve through the woodlands hath sigh’d farewell.
Peace! The sad memories that through the day
With a weight on thy lonely bosom lay,
The sudden thoughts of the changed and dead,
That bow’d thee as winds bow the willow’s head,
The yearnings for faces and voices gone—
All are forgotten! Sleep on, sleep on!
Are they forgotten? It is not so!
Slumber divides not the heart from its woe.