Thou hast wrung bitter tears,
And thou hast left a woe, to cling
Round yearning hearts for years!”
But then a voice came sweet and low—
I turn’d, and near me sate
A woman with a mourner’s brow,
Pale, yet not desolate.
And in her still, clear, matron face,
All solemnly serene,
A shadow’d image I could trace